


All That’s Left

by doriangrayscale



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Courthouses, Courtroom Drama, Fake Character Death, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Multi, Phantom of the Opera AU, Scars, Slow Burn, The United States Judiciary System, Touch-Starved Enjolras, bear with me, you heard me right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-02-18 11:54:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doriangrayscale/pseuds/doriangrayscale
Summary: Five years after the attack that derailed Enjolras’s ambitions of public service, he haunts the State Supreme Court and pulls strings to ensure everyone gets a fair and just trial. With the help of his closest friends and hope that he’s at least doing some good, Enjolras is lonely but content with being thought a ghost, hiding in the shadows and anticipating the Valjean and Thénardier trials.Then the mysterious death of a judge gets blamed on the resident ghost and it all goes to shit.And sketch artist Grantaire seems to be caught in the middle of it. As if Enjolras didn’t have enough to deal with without a snarky artist to trip over.





	1. Prologue

“You really think people are going to show up?”

Enjolras looked away from the poster he was smoothing out to shoot Grantaire an annoyed look.

“They might. I have at least five people who say they’ll come by, so far. And I’m going to buy pizza, so…”

Grantaire snorted, shoving his hands in his pockets and rolling his shoulder roughly once or twice.

“I just don’t see the point.”

“The point is,” Enjolras sighed, tucking his roll of tape under his armpit and walking across the cafeteria to the other set of double doors. “We need to show everyone that even though its founders are leaving, the club is still going strong. Just because the school year is ending doesn’t mean we’re going to be turning a blind eye to justice. We’re leaving the ABC in capable hands. And we’ll be watching.”

Again, Grantaire made a choking noise that sounded like a stunted, wheezy laugh.

“No, I mean what’s in this for you? You did it. You graduated. You got into that fancy elite university that you wanted. You’re out of this fucking town. Why still pretend that you’ve got other motives?”

Enjolras dropped his arms to his side, stopped, and stared.

“You can’t be serious.”

“You’re the one who can’t be serious. How are you even real?”

Enjolras swiftly turned, opting to ignore him instead, and began to tape up the last of the posters to the door.

“Isn’t it too late to hang those up anyway if you’re having the thing tonight?”

“I mean.” Enjolras shrugged. “We had to have them approved by the principal before we could start putting them up on school property. And he took his time getting them back to us stamped and everything.”

“Think that had to do at least a little bit with you cornering him into expelling his star quarterback?”

The cafeteria was empty without the seniors. Spars and bleak. Most people didn’t eat in the cafeteria anyway, choosing to sit in their cars or stroll around outside during lunch instead of sitting stiffly on bleak lines of picnic tables crammed into the tiny, almost windowless room. Now it was just bleak, with one or two lonely students sitting as far away from each other as possible.

Their graduation had been four days ago. Technically, they weren’t even supposed to be back on campus. They weren’t students anymore. But summer started in less than two weeks and the staff was so achingly exhausted by this time so no one really cared who roamed the halls as long as they looked like they could be high schoolers.

Enjolras, of course, was taking advantage of his spare time by coming back to hang up flyers for the end-of-year celebration for the club he had founded with Combeferre, who just got back from his first year of college. The Society for Social Justice Advocacy, professionally. Nicknamed the Friends of the ABC. Enjolras wouldn’t tell anybody why.

He had run into Grantaire while riding his bike back to school. Grantaire had almost hit him at the crosswalk, then insisted on driving him the rest of the way in his surprisingly pristine Volvo. It smelled like cigarette smoke and something vaguely earthy, but Grantaire wanted to be helpful and who was Enjolras to turn down help offered in earnest?

To be honest, he was just giving him another shot because Combeferre insisted he didn’t want to leave each other’s lives forever on bad terms. Enjolras wasn’t too sure he really cared, but Combeferre had a year of college behind him and Enjolras trusted his wisdom. Not that he wouldn’t have staunchly followed any of Combeferre’s advice the previous summer, too, or the summer before that.

Grantaire was behaving relatively well. Which meant he was being mostly quiet, which Enjolras could appreciate. He kept looking between him and the floor and up until a few minutes ago hadn’t offered any unnecessary comments.

How quickly that bliss had fled.

“Well,” Enjolras said slowly. “It wouldn’t have been very ethical of him to let that influence his administrative duties.”

Grantaire really did laugh this time. A loud, clear, barking laugh. Enjolras stood back to stare at the poster while he wiped his hands on his pants in irritation.

“And Fameuil deserved to be expelled. Obviously. It’s not that I was pissed at him for tearing our posters down and basically harassing all of us. He was dangerous. He broke a kid’s arm. He brought a cop taser to school to zap people with. He fucking-”

“I didn’t say I didn’t agree with you.”

Enjolras shut his jaw with a definitive click.

“Well.”

“But you sure made things harder for yourself.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m just saying that if you left it alone and stayed out of his way you could have saved yourself from all those scary ass DMs and getting pushed around by the whole football team your last month of high school.”

“Hm.”

Enjolras pushed open the doors and slipped into the hallway without another word, trusting without being fully conscious of it that Grantaire would just follow him.

He did. Of course.

“Who knows? With all the unburdened free time you might have had, you could have even gone to prom.”

Enjolras scoffed. “Yeah. Sure. Okay.”

“Come on, Enjolras. Think about it.”

“Pretty rich coming from someone who didn’t go to prom either.”

“I would have bought a ticket if you had.”

It was said softly, almost under his breath. Enjolras almost didn’t notice it.

He pretended he hadn’t.

“I screenshotted those DMs, by the way,” he chose to say instead. “I’m gonna turn him in.”

“Of course you are.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at him. “What? Do you think I shouldn’t?”

“I didn’t say that.”

This time, Enjolras could only sigh.

He was headed toward the bathroom before they left. He realized he hadn’t mentioned that to Grantaire. Grantaire was just following him anyway, without question. He had slipped back into silence, and now all that could be heard echoing through the empty halls was the clicking of their shoes against the scuffed marble floors.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire halted. “Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you just want to meet back at your car?”

Grantaire stared at him, shuffling his feet and rolling his hands around in his pockets. He blinked a little too quickly. Enjolras could have sworn he say the corners of his mouth twitch into a hesitant frown.

“Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

And he left. Just like that. Without another word.

Weird.

Enjolras texted Combeferre as he left the bathroom.

_can I stay at urs tonight ?_

He was crossing the parking lot when he saw a few guys from the football team leaving the fieldhouse. He liked to say he wasn’t afraid of them.

He quickened his pace.

His phone buzzed.

_Again?_

He frowned, but before he could even open the text, another one followed.

_I mean of course you can. Obviously. But are you ok? You’ve slept over every night since I’ve been back…_

He swallowed. The football players had spotted him. He sped up even more.

They didn’t do anything. Didn’t say anything. But he could feel them watching him, their eyes trained on him as he speed-walked through the parking lot all the way to Grantaire’s car, which was parked in the very back, by the road.

_Enj?_

He didn’t even slow down as he typed back a response.

_yeah im fine_

_i mean i guess_

_i just don’t like sleeping there all alone if i can help it_

Combeferre texted back quickly.

_I get it. I really do. When’s the last time you heard from them?_

Enjolras sighed.

_I haven’t even gotten a phone call since almost six months ago and you know I haven’t see them for longer than that_

_theyre fucking gone who cares_

_i never really needed them anyway i mean_

_ive always been fine by myself_

_hope theyre having fun on the run_

_fucking tax evasion can you believe it_

_rich fucks_

Combeferre shot back once again.

_They’re your parents. It’s okay to care about them. And it’s okay to be hurt that they left you behind._

Enjolras tried to open the passenger door, but it was locked. He peeked in the window. Grantaire’s eyes were closed as he leaned back in his seat, arms folded and a frown on his face.

Enjolras knocked, jolting him. He snapped to attention, unlocking the door and starting the car while Enjolras climbed in

He cleared his throat.

“I’m taking you back to your place then, right?”

Enjolras shrugged. “If you want.”

_i dont care… see you tonight ferre_

Silence. Grantaire didn’t have any music playing, which was weird for him. Enjolras had wanted the silence. He thought he had, at least. Now it was making him uncomfortable. It was making his skin crawl.

“You’re coming tonight, right?”

Enjolras could feel Grantaire tense. He hunched over the wheel. He frowned, staring at the road in front of him.

“Actually, I kind of can’t.”

“Why not?”

Grantaire began tapping his fingers lightly, rhythmically against the steering wheel as he turned down Enjolras’s street. “Um. I’m leaving actually. Today. At like… 2:00. So yeah. I’m staying with my grandparents for the summer because my dad wants me out of his hair while he’s working on this huge case. I’m uh… gonna be gone like two months so… I mean you’ll probably be gone by the time I get back, so…”

“You’re going…”

Enjolras furrowed his brow.

“Case? I didn’t know your dad was a lawyer.”

“Oh.” Grantaire cleared his throat. “Oh, yeah. Um. He is.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“So, I guess… this is gonna be the last time we ever see each other. That’s um… a little-”

“Weird?” Grantaire glanced over at him with a lopsided smile. “Yeah.”

Enjolras swallowed. “I mean… I know we’ve had our differences and we don’t really get along and we kind of hate each other-”

“I don’t hate you, Enjolras.”

He sounded sad. Tired. Worn-out. Enjolras could have winced at the tone in his voice.

Grantaire was a pain. A nuisance. But, nevertheless, he’d become a consistent presence. Even comforting. Enjolras had gotten use to using him as a counterpoint. Had gotten used to him offering up every argument he should be prepared for. He had settled into their mutually disdainful not-quite-friendship. He thought it had been mutual.

He thought it had been.

“Oh,” was all he could say in response. He lacked the ability to try and search out everything Grantaire could mean. He didn’t hate him.

What, then?

“So.”

Enjolras was floundering.

“Are you going to college?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Yeah. Of course. My dad wants me to follow in his footsteps. Be a lawyer. Not like I have any ambitions. Might as well.”

“You… you draw a lot, don’t you?”

“I do more than draw, Enjolras.”

Enjolras huffed. “Well, then. That’s an ambition. A passion.”

“Ha. Artist. Like I can go to my dad with that.”

“What if…”

Enjolras looked away from Grantaire and out the window. This whole conversation was bizarre. The fact that he was having this conversation with bizarre. The fact that he was holding any real conversation with Grantaire was completely bizarre.

“What if… what if you were one of the court artist guys?”

Grantaire slid his eyes sideways at him.

“You mean like a sketch artist?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

And they slipped back into silence once more.

“I wonder how I’d go about that,” Grantaire mused.

Enjolras couldn’t help it. He smiled.

That, he tried best he could to keep to himself.

What was wrong with him?

What was going on?

Bizarre.

“What are you going to do?” Grantaire asked him suddenly.

“Like… in life?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Easy. Politics.”

Grantaire snorted. “Right.”

“Got something to say about it?”

“Just that you’re gonna make it far with that pretty face of yours.”

Bizarre.

They rolled into Enjolras’s driveway with Enjolras feeling more confused than anything else.

“Okay,” he said after they just sat there in the driveway for a few minutes without saying anything to each other. “Well. Wow. I guess this is goodbye, then.”

And he turned to leave, but was stopped by the sudden presence of Grantaire’s hand around his wrist.

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras turned around again. Grantaire had such a strange look on his face. Completely bizarre. Sad and longing.

“There’s something I have to tell you. Before… you know…”

Bizarre.

Grantaire fell back against his seat and began to rub his face with his hand. He laughed wretchedly.

Bizarre.

“God, I’m such a coward.”

In his pocket, Enjolras’s phone buzzed. He didn’t even check it. He was too busy staring at Grantaire. At the way his fingers kept thrumming against the steering wheel and the way he kept clearing his throat.

“Enjolras, I’ve had a crush on you since I met you in AP Gov junior year. You started an argument with the teacher about voting rights. I think I might even be a little bit in love with you. And I’ve been too much of a coward to ever say anything about it. I mean… it’s not like I ever had a shot. You hated me. And I… I mean, look at me!”

Enjolras had never been more uncomfortable. Not once. He wanted desperately to get out. Just get out.

It was bizarre. He just couldn’t process it. He couldn’t understand it.

He had to get out.

“I mean,” Grantaire continued. “I can’t even list all the things I would change about myself. U’d take away all the scars, my lumpy nose, my stubby fingers, my… Everything. I would change everything. And you… Enjolras, you’re fucking beautiful. That’s… That’s dumb. That’s obviously… But. Yeah. I just… I just had to get it off my chest. There. That’s it. Now you know.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t know what else to say. He needed out. He was suffocating.

He was so confused.

Grantaire stared at him.

“Okay? That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

Grantaire stared.

“Right. Right. I guess. Yeah.”

“Grantaire?”

“Hm?”

“I… I have to go.”

“Right. Of course.”

As Enjolras escaped through the passenger door, he glanced back one last time at Grantaire and tried desperately to ignore how heartbroken he looked.

It didn’t matter.

It didn’t.

It’s not like they would ever see each other again.

What was he supposed to do?

“Grantaire?”

“Yeah?”

“I know I’ve… I’ve been hard on you, but… Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re… You’re not that… that bad-looking. Um. Yeah.”

He started toward the house. He heard Grantaire call after him.

“Enjolras! Your bike!”

Enjolras turned right back around. “Oh.”

His cheeks burned as he stepped around to Grantaire’s trunk and waited for it to pop open. When it did, he pulled his bike out and slammed the trunk, hastening away once again.

“I hope that pretty face gets you where you want to be,” Grantaire called.

Enjolras sent a bleak smile back as Grantaire pulled out of his driveway and away. He glanced down at his phone. Two texts. Both from Boussuet. Responses to the text he sent earlier.

_Yeah! The internship’s going great!!!_

_You won’t believe some of the things I’ve found out about this old building! Did you know it used to be owned by this really sketch millionaire who got busted for drugs in like the 80s? Court got moved here after the old court house burned down. I think I’ve found something in these archives that my supervisors don’t even know about. Maybe I’ll keep the secrets of this old place ;P_

The house was so empty. It was always empty.

Enjolras tried to put Grantaire out of his mind. He really did. But it was hard getting rid of the mental image of him and his lonely eyes.

He would never see him again. No use dwelling on it..

He tried to think of other things, but the comment Grantaire had made about his supposedly pretty face crept back into his mind for some reason.

He started to pace. Glance at the clock. Wait for the minutes to drag on.

He opened his phone again to text Combeferre.

_sorry for snapping_

_hows working at the hospital_

He pocketed the phone. He waited. An hour passed.

Grantaire would be leaving soon.

It felt like an eternity before it was time to leave. Enjolras steeled himself before stepping back out of the door and grabbing his bike.

It was getting dark.

Enjolras barely saw the truck crawling behind him as he cycled down his street and out into the main road. Barely saw it follow him as he cut turned onto the deserted backroad that went past the dump and the woods before finally letting out close to the school. He did notice, though, when the driver rolled down the window to yell at him.

“Hey, Blondie! This’ll teach you to mind your own fucking business!”

Enjolras turned to look back just in time for something wet and hot to be thrown in his face as the truck roared past.

It burned.

It burned.

Enjolras screamed. His hands shot up to his face as he lost control of his bike and spun off the road into a ditch. He was thrown from his seat directly into a patch of concrete. He hit it. Hard. Pain coursed through his body as his shoulder rammed against the stony surface. He felt a pop, a snap. Blood bubbling up and over his skin in the places it had been knocked off. All the air had fled his lungs. He cracked his eyelids open, just a little, just so he could see.

He could barely see, but he could see.

Whatever it was had hit mostly his lower face. His lips felt swollen and raw and he couldn’t even feel his nose anymore. His cheeks, down his neck, even some splashes on his forehead. He could see better out of his right eye, but his left eye had weaker vision, and the left side of his forehead creeping up into his hairline felt like it was melting.

It burned. It hurt.

His face felt like it was melting off, but he couldn’t scream. With the shoulder and the arm and the scrapes and the airless lungs and collapsed chest, it was too much. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t talk. Couldn’t break. In his pocket, he felt his phone buzz. Once. Then again.

He couldn’t move to reach for it.

Everything felt so dark. So hazy. He was in pain.

His face burned.

His eyelashes fluttered closed as he heard the motor of the truck nearing again before the driver crawled to a stop in the place he went off the road. He heard a door open.

“Shit! Fuck! Fuck no!”

Footsteps. Distant. Enjolras’s head felt too heavy. He could barely hear anything. Dizzy.

He was dizzy.

“No. Fuck. Fuck. Did I… are you dead?”

Enjolras couldn’t answer, even if he wanted to. Couldn’t even make a movement to indicate he heard.

“Oh my god!”

Hands roaming over his body. Breath hot in his face. It smelled like liquor. Alcohol.

Hot and astringent.

He recognized that voice.

Fameuil.

Fumbling, the fingers checked for a pulse. They weren’t even jabbed against his neck for a minute before was pulling them away again. He started sobbing. Crying.

“No… No… No…”

Pain.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to kill you… I…”

A rough swallow.

“I have to hide the body. That’s what I have to do. That’s how it goes. Right?”

Enjolras roughly felt himself being lifted. Being carried.

Being thrown in a trunk, then being sealed off from the outside.

It burned.

Silence. Silence and pain.

Enjolras thought briefly about Grantaire. About Grantaire having a crush on him. Being in love with him. Telling him he had a pretty face.

Such a pretty face.

And then he lost consciousness.


	2. Five Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire starts a new job and meets a ghost.

Éponine had invited him over for welcome-back weed. The good shit, too. None of that stuff he usually bought for cheap. This, she promised him, was what celebrities smoked.

So what if today was the first day working at the courthouse? They wouldn’t be drug testing him for a little while. He was at least pretty sure about that. And if they did, he could always buy urine. That was a thing.

Right?

He didn’t care. His dad had gotten him the job anyway. It wasn’t like he really earned it. Did he want to move back to his hometown? No.

He was laying on his back on Éponine’s slim twin mattress, which was laying on the floor pushed into the corner of her tiny studio apartment. Gavroche’s mattress was just a couple feet away. It was a small apartment. He was at school.

Éponine had decorated her wall with a bunch of dark poetry and artwork she had stolen off the internet and printed at the library in standard black and white on letter paper. It looked like had put a lot of thought in the way she taped them to the wall. It almost looked artistic.  

Grantaire raised his hand up, high over his face. Let it hover in the air, erect only by the power of the position of his arm. He squinted his eyes. He studied it well. The wrinkles and divots. The hair on his knuckles. The discoloration of his palms. There was a crash, coming from the bathroom, the sound of shampoo and soap bottles falling off their shelves, followed by a trill of giggling so utterly uncharacteristic of Éponine. Grantaire sighed and let his hand drop. It thwumped against the cheap mattress.

He had always hated his hands.

The door to the bathroom opened and Éponine and Montparnasse both stumbled out, clothes ruffled and eyes red. Montparnasse, ever the smooth criminal, was hastening to straighten everything out, hastening to groom himself into the presence he always liked to present. Éponine, however, was headed toward the kitchen, sniffling and rubbing desperately at her nose. Her ratty jeans were still unzipped, but Grantaire didn’t quite have the heart to tell her.

While she poured herself a glass of water, Montparnasse slouched down on Gavroche’s mattress, ran his fingers through his hair, and glowered down at Grantaire.

“You alright, R? Coming down okay?”

Grantaire sighed. Nodded.

“I am, unfortunately, no longer high.”

“Pretty ballsy, I gotta say,” Montparnasse hummed. “Getting high before going to court.”

“I’m the courtroom’s newest resident artist.” Grantaire groaned as he sat up. “I have to be high.”

Montparnasse grinned at him. Like a cat. In the kitchen, Éponine sat her glass in the sink with a loud clank and spun around. She leaned back, eyes narrow.

“I have to go pick Gav up from school at 3:00,” she almost growled. “Want me to give you a ride?”

The way she spat it out made the kind gesture seem almost like a challenge. Grantaire knew it wasn’t. Grantaire knew she was being sincere, being kind even. That was just Éponine.

“Nah, I have to be there at 2:00. Don’t worry about it. The bus is always… colorful.”

Éponine smirked and stalked back to the bathroom without another word, shutting the door behind her.

Montparnasse was staring at him.

“You know, if you’re going to be at the courtroom, you should do me a favor.”

Grantaire chuckled, raising his hand to rub at his neck as he shook his head. “You know, I don’t really know you that well. You’re… you’re kind of just the guy my friend fucks. I mean, at least take me out for drinks, first.”

His sarcasm fell flat. Montparnasse was till grinning at him.

“No. You want to do me a favor.”

Grantaire did not, in fact, want to do Montparnasse a favor. No matter how good his weed was. And he wasn’t afraid of him either. He was at least ninety percent bark. Ten percent bite. Probably. Maybe.

But at this point, Grantaire was too tired to argue. About anything. Anymore. So he didn’t given in to the little intimidation game Montparnasse was playing. But he didn’t say no either. He just kept his mouth shut

“I left a woman’s purse under the back row of seats in Courtroom C last time I was there. Get it for me?”

Grantaire didn’t say anything. Not a word.

Montparnasse blinked at him.

“Thank you,” he said.

And just like that, Grantaire was committed.

“That’s not sketch at all,” he grumbled as he rocked to his feet. Montparnasse smiled up at him.

“You’re a great guy, R. You’re such a great guy.”

“Thanks.”

Éponine came prowling out of the bathroom. She threw something at Montparnasse.

He caught it.

“You left your keys in there,” she muttered.

Then she looked at Grantaire.

“You should get going if you have to be there at 2:00.”

“Yeah. I know. I’m back on my feet, aren’t I?”

Éponine shrugged.

“Do I smell like it?”

She took a couple more steps toward him and sniffed, completely emotionless.

“You’re fine.”

“Great.”

“You know the place is haunted, right?”

Grantaire looked back down to where Montparnasse hadn’t moved from Gavroche’s mattress. He was smirking up at him.

“What?”

“Haunted. So.”

“Ignore him,” Éponine said. “He’s just fucking with you.”

“I’m not. Ask anyone. The place is haunted. You should be there at night. You can here it in the walls. Like an angry rat.”

“Thanks, Parnasse. That makes me want to do you a favor.”

He signed as he tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his dress pants.

Dress pants.

Yeah. Dress pants.

As if this day couldn’t get any worse, Montparnasse finally got to his feet to sling an arm across Éponine’s shoulders. She shrugged him off, but he smiled anyway.

“About the favor,” he drawled. “They found a judge murdered in his office this morning. Pretty gruesome. Slit throat. Blood everywhere. Spewed out his carotid like out of a fucking fire hydrant. So, naturally, there are even more cops than usual sniffing around.”

Grantaire wished he could wipe that cat grin off his smug, handsome face.

“So be careful.”

“Thanks, Parnasse. That’s great. So, so great. Thank you for that.”

He nodded at Éponine.

“See you later.”

He slipped out the door and onto the balcony before Montparnasse could say anything else to him. Perfect timing, really. He could see the bus pulling up the stop.

He had to hurry down to catch it.

It had been five, almost six years since Enjolras had died and he really didn’t want to be in this fucking town.

Enjolras.

God.

He took a seat toward the back, leaned his head against the glass, and closed his eyes.

Tight.

He wished he were still high.

He got off at the courthouse silently. The bus screeched away.

It didn’t take him long to get through security. It didn’t take him long to find a bathroom. These were just tasks. Quick, meaningless tasks he could muddle his way through. He found his way to a mirror, groaned at the sight of his hair, and tried his best to pat his black curls back down into something almost passable. When he gave up, he leaned forward and decided to study himself.

Never a good idea.

But the closer he looked, the more he noticed _something._

A face that was definitely not his.

A face like something out of a really depressing horror movie. There. Staring back at him.

Startled, he stumbled back and blinked. But the face was gone. And he was left staring at his own reflection.

He pushed what Montparnasse said to him about ghosts and hauntings quickly from his mind. He must still be a little high. Obviously. That was fine.

It just made things more bearable.

Good.

Fine.

He had to get to his assigned courtroom.

He didn’t even need to ask for directions. The building had a simple, straightforward layout. Easy enough to navigate, especially since he had been there once or twice before when he was younger, with his dad or visiting his dad. He found his way. To the courtroom, which was already filling up. To his seat, right next to who he assumed was the court stenographer, distinctive by a shock of bright red hair pulled into a bun and matching freckles sprinkled across their nose.

“You must be the artist,” they said dreamily as Grantaire took his seat, without even looking up from their papers.

Grantaire stared.

“Uh. Yeah. You can call me R.”

“A letter,” they hummed. “That’s easy.”

Grantaire stared. “Yeah. Easy.”

“It’s a good thing you chose today to almost be late. There might be a delay.” They finally glanced up at Grantaire. “Seeing as the judge presiding over this trial was viciously murdered this morning while enjoying a cup of coffee and a bagel with strawberry cream cheese.”

“Uh-”

“Jehan.”

“That’s-”

“What you can call me. Jehan.” They cocked their head. “You can call the deceased purveyor of justice Fameuil. Senior. He was not a very good man. I think the ghost killed him.”

“The-”

“Haven’t you heard?” Jehan smiled. “This place is haunted.”

“Right.”

“I like you.”

“Thank you.”

Silence. Now he just had to wait for the trial to begin.

For the trial to begin.

For the trial to begin.

The trial began.

Finally.

Grantaire was lucky. Incredibly lucky. So lucky the officer in charge of the case was such a detailed subject. So fun to draw, with his bulldog face, his stern eyebrows, his barrel chest. He didn’t say much. He didn’t even seem like he agreed with the few words he did say. The judge now presiding over the case, Blachevelle, had to rely on three key witnesses to get the story.

Grantaire didn’t really bother paying attention. He didn’t have to pay attention. All he had to do was draw.

He got bits and pieces, unfortunately. The three witnesses claimed the accused, a petty thief, was escaped felon Jean Valjean. The accused claimed he wasn’t. There was something screwy with his fingerprints. He didn’t know exactly.

Grantaire tried to pay as little attention as possible.

The whole thing was so dull, went by so slowly. A constant back-and-forth argument between the prosecutor and the defense. Grantaire went through page after page of sketches, always lingering on the imposing figure of the police officer.

Intermittently, Jehan would whisper to him without ever taking a pause from typing out everything going on. Just little things. Comments about the trial, the building, friends. It was incredible. Grantaire couldn’t imagine being capable of doing that. He could only do one thing at once.

Eventually, finally, court was adjourned. No real progress had been made. The trial would continue at a date Grantaire didn’t care enough to hear about. And just like that, it was over.

Another day was over.

Fucking finally.

“You know,” Jehan said as they packed up their respective mediums. “My friends Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and I are going for drinks tonight. You could join.”

“Courfeyrac,” Grantaire mused. “I knew a Courfeyrac in high school. Maybe it’s the same guy.”

Jehan gave him a look.

“There aren’t many Courfeyracs,” they said, in place of an actual agreement. Grantaire hummed.

“I could,” he agreed. “And I’d love to. Like. I really would. But I have to rain check. I actually have something else tonight. But… yeah. Raincheck?”

“Saturday, then?”

Grantaire smiled.

“Definitely.”

“Great.” he watched as Jehan pulled out their ponytail holder, letting auburn hair fall down over their shoulder. They shot him a cocky grin. “See you later, Letter R.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

He watched as Jehan disappeared into the crowd milling about between the seats.

Courtroom C.

He just had to wait for everything to clear out.

 

Everything did. Clear out, that is. Eventually.

Well, mostly.

And he had to loiter around the courthouse until it was almost closed, which, other than being horribly boring, was nerve-wracking with all the cops hanging around, with all the whispers about the revered judge Fameuil Sr.’s untimely demise. On top of that, Grantaire couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

Finally, when the coast was as clear as he could expect it to be, he slipped into Courtroom C and crouched down on his knees, swearing under his breath and cursing Montparnasse with every fiber of his being. He shuffled up and down one row of chairs.

He was about to start on another when he heard that voice. The voice.

For the first time.

“You’re looking for the purse.”

Familiar. Almost achingly familiar. Grantaire froze, blood throbbing in his veins. He was caught between fear. Being caught wouldn’t be fun for him, even if nothing really was fun for him. Sure, his father was the reason he was here. Sure, there was better art to be made than sketches of scenes in a dull courtroom. But it’s not like he wanted to take the fall for something he was doing just because he hadn’t cared enough to say no.

And the voice.

That voice.

Almost like…

Like…

It was almost like a ghost.

A ghost.

Grantaire couldn’t breathe.

“You are, aren’t you?”

Couldn’t even speak.

Of course, this shit would happen to him. It wasn’t like anything ever went right in his life. It had to be him, right? Always had to be him.

He really wished he were still high.

“Are you going to stay on your knees and pretend you don’t hear me or…?”

Grantaire swallowed and, shakily, began to stand.

The source of the voice was the bench at the front of the room. More specifically, the witness stand, where the voice in question was sitting almost casually, turning a purse over in hands very weirdly covered in gloves. Even though it was summer. And hot.

And that wasn’t even the weirdest thing. He was wearing a black trench coat, like the worst movie villain ever. And, weirder still, was the mask.

A ski mask. A black, thick ski mask, but with no hole for the mouth. Just the two eye holes, which looked like they had been cut out by the wearer himself, through which peered mismatched red-rimmed eyes. One blue. One cloudy. Ghostly.

Ghostly.

Around his neck, where the mask ended and the collar of his heavy coat had not yet begun, Grantaire could see a few spirals of gold curls stick out.

“If you want it,” he said with that ghostly familiar voice of his, “you can come get it.”

Grantaire stared at him, a small outline from all the way at the opposite end of the courtroom. Stared out the purse in his outstretched hand.

Fucking bizarre.

Of course.

It always had to be him.

What he needed was a good drink. And to still be high. God, he just wanted to be cross-faded at this point. Blacked out and down for the count.

He hated this. He hated his dad. He hated Montparnasse.

There wasn’t a single person or thing he didn’t hate anymore.

“I don’t bite.”

But it was said so deadpan that Grantaire was a little afraid he just might, even as his feet began to carry him forward down the center aisle.

“Are you a friend of Montparnasse?”

Something in his eyes flickered. He could see them better the closer he got. The mouth covered by the fabric moved, creating a disturbing ripple in the mask.

“Are you?” he questioned back.

How was Grantaire supposed to answer that?

He shrugged.

“I might be.” He paused a few feet away, working his jaw and thinking. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important. You don’t need to know me. You can’t know me. No one can. But I know you, Grantaire. R, to your friends.”

Grantaire swallowed.

“Are you a friend?”

“No.”

Well, then.

Grantaire began to inch forward more and more.

“How do you know me?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even seem to make a move to answer. Tentatively, Grantaire reached out and took the purse, expecting some resistance, some trap he couldn’t anticipate.

There was none. He relinquished the purse and tucked his hand into his lap and just watched Grantaire stand there, too confused to turn and leave.

“Do you know what’s in there?” he asked Grantaire instead.

“No.”

“Good. Don’t look. It’s better if you don’t.”

Grantaire took a step back, never breaking eye contact.

“Well-”

“You can call me something if you want. Anything you want. You have a letter. Give me one.”

This was the first time emotion had entered his voice, even if just barely. It almost sounded like a plea.

Grantaire felt completely and totally out of his depth.

“Does this… am I going to be needing to call you something, then? Like… are we going to see each other?”

Grantaire almost thought he smiled.

“Potentially. You know, Montparnasse and his friends are very important to me. Have been for a while. I’ve done you a favor giving you that purse. Don’t you think? I mean, you know I have. At least, you do if you know Montparnasse as well as I do.”

Favors.

God. To be high and drunk and blissed out of this conversation, this whole stupid building.

“I was hoping we could make a sort of deal. Like… mutual favors. I mean, that’d be nice. Don’t you think.”

That voice. That familiar voice.

Haunting.

“I’d hate to have to blackmail you, but I could go that route, too. If you want. I know more about you than you’d think.”

Fucking favors. Fucking Montparnasse.

“A deal?”

“A deal.”

Grantaire stared at him.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I told you.” The words were punctuated with a sigh. “It’s not important.”

Carefully. Grantaire had to think carefully.

“Okay. Tell me this. Is this place really haunted?”

Again, the mask rippled in such a way that Grantaire was convinced indicated a smile.

“You could say that.”

“You know… I don’t really believe in ghosts.”

“Smart of you.”

“Tell me something else you know about me, if you know so much.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Are you the one who killed Fameuil Sr.?”

A pause. Then, another smile.

Or maybe it was a frown?

“That’s not important, either.”

The voice sounded like it was frowning.

“Okay,” Grantaire said slowly.

He considered.

That voice…

That voice hurt.

He wished…

Hurt.

“E,” he said softly. “If we work out a deal, can I call you E?”

Without a word, he nodded.

Grantaire couldn’t shake the feeling that his fate had just been sealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so bear with me as I set the scene. We just have to get through a little exposition and then things are going to go from 0 to 100 real fast. Also, there’s going to be some alternating POV for this story. Fun! Right?
> 
> Leave me a comment :) I really appreciate them :)))


	3. The Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras might be going down a rabbit hole, but he’s fine. Really. Everything is fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So. I went ahead and wrote the chapter and figured hey why not go ahead and post? Plus I probably won’t be able to get to a computer to post this Friday because guess what!!! I’m visiting the wonderful person whom i’m in a whole relationship with this week so!!! Yeah!!! Expect the next update sometime next week. For now, here you go :) 2,600 words of Enj being a melodramatic shit.

The thick, twisted scarring reached from his collarbone all the way up into his scalp on one side, curling across his head and leaving rivets where blond hair would no longer grow.

On the other side, it reached only from his chin to his cheekbone, a mess of purple-red mottled flesh stretched across his facial bones. His nose had almost completely been melted off, his lips shriveled and curled up so he couldn’t quite cover his teeth even if his mouth were completely closed.

On the left side of his face where the acid had hit and where the scarring was worse, his eyebrow wouldn’t grow back. His left eye was white and ghostly, almost blind. He could barely see anything out of it.

Such a pretty face.

He had gotten into the habit of scratching the bony protrusion where his left eyebrow used to be when he was stressed. Like now. Today. He had scratched at it so hard that he had drawn blood.

When he drew his fingers away, he saw red.

He hadn’t expected his life to turn out like this.

He groaned, audibly, just to hear a voice in the static room that wasn’t coming from the TV, and sunk down further into the couch.

So far that his feet dangled off the other end.

This wasn’t helping. He snatched the remote from where it lay on his chest and cut the movie off.

It was stupid anyway. He didn’t know what Combeferre was thinking. Bringing him an animated movie. A fucking Disney movie.

He could see the humor in it. An uplifting animation about a misshapen man who lives in the walls of a building. Very funny. Really.

He was ashamed he was going to have to give Combeferre the satisfaction of admitting he even played his stupid movie.

He rolled off of the ratty old couch. Literally. Rolled. Slowly. Planting his hands and feet firmly on the ground before pushing himself off of it. He bumped his head as he stood, forgetting for a brief instant how low the ceiling of this over-glorified crawlspace was.

He glanced at the clock on his wall. That particular decoration had been courtesy of Courfeyrac. It was the shape of a heart. A Valentine’s Day product gotten on clearance to cheer up his mopey friend.

What a gift.

Enjolras pursed his lips. Combeferre should be there soon.

He rummaged around in his pocket and drew out his phone.

A flip phone, ever since Fameuil had thrown acid in his face and half-buried him in the woods. This was what he had been reduced to.

He started to type out a message, but then remembered the very small, very necessary white lie he had told Courfeyrac when he had swung by to keep him company earlier.

He pocketed it again.

He sighed.

He picked at the ghost of his eyebrow.

He paced.

Combeferre came, finally, after Enjolras had paced across his small living space back and then exactly forth forty-two times. He was late.

“You’re late,” Enjolras told him, speaking over the hiss of breath Combeferre made – always made – after climbing up the rickety ladder and hoisting himself up into the room.

Combeferre didn’t say anything. Frowning, Enjolras turned around to look at him.

Combeferre walked over to his couch and quietly sat the bag he was carrying down.

“Combeferre?”

“Did you kill him?” he asked, voice low.

Pained.

Enjolras frowned.

“Really, Combeferre? You think I could do that?”

Combeferre didn’t answer him. He just stared at his feet, unmoving.

“No,” Enjolras told him miserably. “I didn’t kill him. If you don’t believe me, just think about it. Why would I? Fameuil Sr. was a safe bet. He listened, used the evidence I gave him. Obliged everything I asked out of guilt. He never doubted I was haunting him.”

“That’s the problem, Enjolras,” Combeferre looked up.

Finally.

“Courf told me that Marius told him that they found a note. Fameuil had it crumpled up in his fist. _The ghost will haunt me until I am dead._ ”

Enjolras felt cold.

He had killed him, then. In a way.

“He-”

Murderer.

“Yeah. They’re thinking about ruling the whole thing as a suicide. But, Enj… I had to ask. You understand, don’t you? I have to be sure you didn’t-”

“I get it.”

Villain.

He added in a lower voice:

“You all think I’m going crazy, after all.”

Combeferre shook his head, eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Enjolras’s shoulder.

It was nice of him to even bother pretending he could look at him.

“We don’t. Think you’re crazy, that is. We just…”

“No, I get it. Of course I get it. I’m sorry. I’m just on edge. I’m sure you can imagine why.”

Combeferre swallowed and nodded.

“What are you going to do now?”

Enjolras shrugged.

“I still have the others. Blachevelle and Listolier. They aren’t as easy as Fameuil was, for sure. But I’m sure I can work on them. And Tholomyes… I need to try to make some progress with Tholomyes. I hate him. But I need him. He’s the only one that knows – really knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt – that I’m not actually a ghost. And that makes him the biggest risk. I need leverage.”

“Leverage.”

It was an echo. Combeferre let the words pass from his lips numbly.

Enjolras felt suddenly very ashamed.

“This is what I have to do now,” he whispered. “Remember? This is how I make a difference. The ends… The ends justify the means, right?”

Combeferre hummed. He seemed to shake himself, though, and busy himself by reaching down into the bag he brought.

Enjolras picked at the place his eyebrow should be.

“I brought you some Rousseau,” Combeferre was saying, sitting a book on the couch so he could fish something else out. “Figured you’d need some cheering up.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras murmured.

“And,” he continued, voice becoming more stable and confident and cheerful the more he talked about Enjolras’s meaningless entertainment, “I know you vowed to never watch it, but _Titanic_ is a classic and best of all, it’s long. I mean, you need something to fill up your time, right?”

He didn’t mean it cruelly. Enjolras knew that. But still, it hurt.

Everything hurt.

“I keep busy,” he protested, slightly under his breath. “I have a whole courthouse to run, after all.”

Combeferre merely made a noise of acknowledgement before pulling another book out of the bag.

“ _Metamorphosis_. Kafka. Another classic. Another necessity. Read it, Enj.”

“Fine.” He sniffed.

“And,” Combeferre continued, wrinkling his brow. “Courfeyrac told me that your phone broke and that you needed another, so here. Already loaded it with minutes for you and added everyone’s numbers.”

He tossed to flip phone deftly, and Enjolras scrambled to catch it, almost dropping it and making Combeferre snort with amusement at his lack of coordination.

He rolled his eyes as he pocketed it.

“Thank you.”

He inclined his head toward the small table by his mattress, which rested on the floor pushed into the corner of the room. A small pile of books and movies, what Combeferre had brought him last time, had accumulated there.

“You can take all that back when you leave.”

“Enj…” Combeferre tried, staring after him as he turned his back to stack over to the table with the pile of distractions. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It?”

“Fameuil. I know… It’s probably hard…”

“You’re a med student, Ferre, not my personal psychiatrist.”

Combeferre sighed.

“Right, but…” He swallowed. “And… do you know…”

Enjolras was busying himself sweeping books and movies up into his arms.

“Do you know about Grantaire?”

Enjolras froze. Combeferre continued.

“I just… Remember Grantaire? We went to high school with him… I know you guys never got along, but… I just thought you should know that he’s back in town. I didn’t want you to… I guess I wanted to make sure you were kept updated.”

Grantaire.

Such a pretty face, he had said.

_I might even be a little bit in love with you,_ he had said.

“Huh.”

Combeferre didn’t need to know.

There was nothing to know. Not really.

Not at all.

It was… a weakness. Just…

He was just trying to reconnect to that part of him from his past. That person everyone called beautiful, angel-faced, fiery, passionate… That… That…

That whole entire person he was.

He used to be a person.

Once.

Grantaire was just…

A means to an end. A way to make himself feel better. A way to make himself feel.

Anything.

Anything at all.

Combeferre didn’t need to know.

He shrugged. He hoped Combeferre couldn’t tell that it was forced.

He had been a lot of things, sure. A passionate speaker. Dogmatic. Unstoppable, whenever he had a cause to cling to.

But he had never been a good liar.

“Thanks, but I don’t really care.”

 

The wheels were in motion. The notes he planted in Blachevelle and Listolier’s offices where in place.

It was amazing what someone could learn about people in five years, living in their walls.

It was amazing how many people, how many judges in the courthouse, had mistresses.

Blachevelle and Listolier were stupid. Careless, when they thought no one was around. Too superstitious. Too easy to control. Tholomyes was going to be a much more difficult task.

But doable.

Hopefully. Maybe.

He could think about that later.

He had an appointment to keep.

When he stepped out of the hidden door that connected his own secret quarters courtesy of the very rich and very criminal family that had lived in the building before it became a courthouse – well, it was really a trap door and instead of stepping out he had to climb out of his and brush dust and leaves off of himself – and back into the warm night air of the real world, he shivered.

He shivered.

What was wrong with him?

For a few minutes, he just stood there. Completely still. He couldn’t bring himself to move.

It had been so long. So long.

The outside shouldn’t be this horrifying. But when he heard a car rev its engine somewhere in the distance, he nearly jumped out of his skin.  
He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and began to put one foot in front of the other.

Walk.

Just walk.

It wasn’t that hard.

Then why did he keep shaking?

It was 3:00 in the morning and he couldn’t escape the feeling the someone was going to see him.

See him.

He pulled his makeshift mask down a little more so it covered more of his neck, stuck his hands in his pockets, and walked quickly.

He shouldn’t have to feel like this.

But he did.

There was a bench by the next bus station down from the courthouse that was relatively isolated, not very well-lit. He spotted it and breathed out a sigh of relief upon seeing it empty.

Damn it, why couldn’t he stop shaking?

After he took a seat, while he waited, he began going through his old phone, making sure it was all cleared out. Making sure his new number was the only one in it.

Grantaire was, unsurprisingly, late.

Why did that make him smile?

Why was Grantaire, standing there a short distance away in a circle of lamp-light and watching him with distrust, the one thing that made him stop shaking?

He really should have been killed five years ago, he thought to himself in irritation.

“Sit,” he instructed with a sigh, feeling somehow very self-conscious with Grantaire’s piercing eyes, framed and enlarged by the dark circles, watching him.

Grantaire frowned harder, if that were possible.

“Why?”

“Not important.”

“Nothing is, apparently,” Grantaire grumbled, reluctantly inching closer until he was finally close enough to take a sit on the opposite end of the bench, putting a solid couple of feet between himself and Enjolras.

Enjolras held the phone out to Grantaire, looking forward deliberately and not at him.

“Here.”

Grantaire took it slowly, distrustfully.

“For us to communicate. I already put my number in there, too.”

“About Montparnasse, right.”

Enjolras swallowed. “Right.

“I gave him his purse,” Grantaire mumbled. “Um… he hasn’t exactly done anything exceptionally suspicious. I don’t know. I mean… I know that he and his friends call themselves the Patron Minette… But I don’t think that’s be news to you. It’s not exactly top-secret. I mean… What am I supposed to be looking out for?”

Enjolras released the breath he was holding.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” he answered vaguely.

Grantaire snorted. “Thanks.”

They lapsed into quiet.

Enjolras’s hand shot up to scratch as his eye before realizing it was covered by fabric. He dropped his hand back into his lap.

Grantaire was watching him.

“Tell me something,” he asked suddenly, catching Enjolras off-guard.

“Something?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Anything. You have to give me something. Like. What is it you do? Are you like… part of a rival gang?”

Enjolras couldn’t help it. He snorted. That snort of amusement then quickly dissolved into a laugh.

He couldn’t control himself. It had been so long since he had laughed. He just couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop it.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he practically doubled over from laughing, aware that Grantaire was watching him. He didn’t care. Couldn’t care. He couldn’t stop it even if he tried.

"You have to admit the mask is a little much," Grantaire was saying, trying to recover.

He laughed. And laughed. And when he finally stop and resumed his posture, he noticed the corners of Grantaire’s mouth were slightly upturned.

Like he was almost smiling.

Enjolras was smiling. Definitely smiling.

He couldn’t help it.

“No,” he mused. “I’m not… I’m not…”

He chuckled again.

“I’m not part of a rival gang. I’m just… a concerned party.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“A concerned party.”

“I take interest in the state of the justice system here. I believe that Montparnasse and some of his friends specifically pose a threat to justice. They represent corruption. I’m not going to do anything immoral with the information you give me, so don’t feel bad about that. I just want justice. Clear and beautiful and powerful and…”

He trailed off as he noticed Grantaire staring at him intently, finally smiling a full, wide smile.

“What?”

He snorted. “You just… You sound like someone I used to know.”

Just that quickly, Enjolras’s smile faded. “Oh.”

He cleared his throat when he realized Grantaire wasn’t going to venture any additional information on his own.

“Someone?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Yeah. He’s dead. So.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“So-”

“So, tell me something then. Are you supposed to be the ghost everyone thinks is haunting the courthouse?”

Enjolras’s smile returned, but it was wan.

Villain.

“I am the ghost in question.”

“But you’re not really a ghost?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“But you’re not.”

“How do you know?”

Grantaire leaned back, crossed his arms, and narrowed his eyes. “Well, for one, you’re out here in the open. If you were a ghost, wouldn’t you not be able to leave the courthouse?”

Enjolras huffed. “Oh, because you’re the authority on what ghosts can and can’t do?”

Grantaire shot him a look.

Enjolras’s breath caught in his throat. It was just a look, but it was a peculiar look. A unique look. A familiar look.

He shivered again in the hot night air.

“You’re not a ghost.”

“Skeptic,” Enjolras quipped back.

“If you’re a ghost, prove it.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Of course you don’t.”

He stood up without prompting, sliding the flip phone Enjolras had given him into his jacket pocket.

“Well, this has been fun, but I have court tomorrow so-”

And then Enjolras had to ruin it.

He was incapable of anything else now.

“Your friend… The one that’s dead… He wants you to try not to be so hard on yourself. And that he's happy you ended up taking his advice.”

Grantaire frowned at him.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice low and shaky.

And then he turned and left, leaving Enjolras to watch him as he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your comments have been so nice and i really appreciate you all so much!!! Like!!! Wow!!! Thank you all and thanks to everyone who has left kudos. Keep it up guys because I really love reading what you have to say. Tell me what you think is going to happen and what role you think all the amis are going to play in terms of this phantom retelling :)) I’ll get the next update out soon.


	4. Magical Lasso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is dealing with it. Or trying to, at least.

Grantaire’s phone buzzed again in his pocket and again he had to resist the urge to reach for it. He had to squirm, pause in what he was doing, readjust the pencil in his hand, and sketch out of few more lines of Valjeans’s three witnesses as he wondered vaguely who kept texting him.

“Now Percy Shelley… great works but he’s such a little bitch.” Jehan sighed, flexed and unflexed their hand, and continued whispering about literary figures like they knew them personally. “Like, honestly, what a prick.”

“Mmhmm,” Grantaire agreed, hardly paying attention.

“Anyway… you’re coming out with us again, right?”

Grantaire glanced over at them. “You mean they actually want me to come out again?”

“Yeah! Of course! Bahorel thought you were hilarious and Courfeyrac just said you hadn’t changed, but he said it smiling so I’m assuming that’s not a bad thing.”

“Yeah. Sure. Okay.”

“Are you going to Fameuil’s funeral?”

Grantaire swallowed.

Fameuil.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I just didn’t know him. What’s the point? Why would I?”

“To help usher his spirit into the afterlife. It’s everyone’s duty.”

“I don’t really give a shit what happens to his spirit. His son killed one of my friends and then he got him off. Fuck his spirit.”

“Oh.”

Jehan tapped out a few more words before flexing their fingers again.

“Enjolras?”

Grantaire didn’t say anything.

“From what Courf’s told me, he sounded like an honorable and devoted man. I would have liked to have known him. I’m sure his spirit is somewhere safe.”

Grantaire remained silent.

They were both silent.

The trial was approaching an end. Everyone could tell. In just a few minutes, the jury would be released to deliberate a verdict. But it wouldn’t take long. Everyone knew. Everyone could tell his guilt. He had eyewitnesses, after all.

“That man is Jean Valjean,” the prisoner called Cochepaille was saying, for the third time now in the trial so far. “We called him Jean-the-Screw, because he was so strong. I’d recognize him anywhere.”

“Well, then,” the district attorney said smugly. “With that, I think we can safely-”

“Stop!”

A voice, from the third row. Grantaire turned in his chair to see someone rise.

“Mayor Madeleine-”

“Brevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! Look here!”

Grantaire watched, fixed, fascinated. Jehan, with astounding dedication, was still typing everything that happened as it happened. In his pocket, Grantaire’s phone buzzed.

Grantaire knew the man. Of course he did. The mayor of the next over. He was a good man. A great mayor, even. Enjolras had respected him. Really, there wasn’t a higher badge of honor, at least in Grantaire’s humble opinion.

While the courtroom was held in suspense, the mayor’s lip curled.

“What? Don’t remember me?”

He strode forward down the aisle, through the bar, and straight forward until he stood in front of Blachevelle. He stared for a moment, then cleared his throat to speak.

"Gentlemen of the jury, order the prisoner to be released.”

He glanced back at the accused with a frown.

“Have me arrested. This man is not Jean Valjean. I am.”

Grantaire could not possibly say he saw that coming.

Fuck.

Well.

Alright, then.

He could only lean back in shock as Jehan continued to type, unperturbed, and the courtroom quickly went to shit.

 

_any leads on mont?_

_its me e btw_

_but u know that because i already put my number in the phone so oops_

_how r u_

_that’s stupid_

_sorry_

And then, finally and most recently:

_holy shit I knew something was fishy with this trial but fuck!!!!!!!!_

Seven messages. That was how many E, the supposed ghost, had sent to the phone he had given him. And that was all during the trial. Grantaire sighed. Pocketed the phone. He took a deep breath and glanced around at the people milling about on the dimly lit sidewalk. He took another breath, ran his fingers through his absolutely awful hair, and pushed his way through the door into the bar.

“Letter R!”

Jehan spotted him before the door even closed behind him and was quick to stand up in their chair and wave, drawing the attention of everyone there. Grantaire’s face turned red and he ducked his head down as he hurried over before realizing something very unsettling.

“Montparnasse,” he said, hollowly, as he took his seat.

“Oh.” Jehan said breezily, climbing back down to actually sit in their seat. “I ran into some more of your friends outside the courthouse earlier. I thought I’d invite them.”

Montparnasse and Brujon, who had to be Grantaire’s least favorite person currently, both smirked at him behind their glasses.

“And Courf and Bahorel should be getting here…” Jehan’s eyes lit up after a quick scan around the room. “Now!”

And, once again, Jehan was standing up in their chair waving Courfeyrac and Bahorel over. “Guys!”

To their credit, they were a lot more unembarrassed about it than Grantaire was. Instead of ducking their heads, they grinned, whooped, and hurried over.

“Jean Prouvaire,” Bahorel boomed, wrapping his arms snugly around Jehan’s lithe form. “My little poet! It’s been so long.”

Grantaire could only sink further into his seat as Bahorel completely picked Jehan up and twirled them around. Courfeyrac slid into the seat beside Grantaire with a wink and a nudge.

Then, he too caught sight of Montparnasse and Brujon. He said nothing, but frowned.

Everyone settled into uncomfortable quiet. The majority of the conversation at the table seemed to be carried on between Montparnasse and Jehan. Which was weird. It was weird how well they seemed to be getting along. Chatting about court drama and how to get rid of bodies and such.

Grantaire turned around to catch the waiter and ordered a drink.

Bahorel kicked at his leg from across the table. Grantaire looked over to see him waggling his eyebrows.

“So I heard about what went down today. The Jean Valjean trial? You can’t even imagine how much everyone’s scrambling.”

“Poor Mayor Madeleine,” Courfeyrac murmured.

“Yeah.” Bahorel rolled his shoulders. “I hate it for him. Years and years of a spotless record, economic innovation, and the highest approval rating of any politician in the region and then he goes and does this. Kudos, of course. But it sucks. Sucks that he’s going to have to go to trial now for mistakes he made when he was a kid. Sucks that he had to come forward in the first place because the system was ready and willing to condemn an innocent man.”

“What happened to Champmathieu?” Grantaire asked, clearing his throat.

“We held him down at the station for a few hours after… everything.” Courfeyrac shrugged. “But we let him walk.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. I mean… it was an unprecedented situation. We just… We just let him go. You should have seen him. I’ve never seen someone cry so hard at being released.”

“Well,” Jehan said sharply, turning around and away from Montparnasse. “He was facing a life sentence and a definite guilty verdict. It’s understandable.”

Grantaire’s phone buzzed again. He glanced down at it in his lap.

_hey_

This whole thing made him uncomfortable. Spying on Montparnasse and his friends? Dangerous and risky. He didn’t want to be involved. Of course not. But that didn’t even feel like the worst part of it. No.

E.

E made him intensely uncomfortable. He knew he wasn’t a ghost. Of course he wasn’t a ghost. But who was he?

Why did he know what he knew?

He wasn’t a ghost.

Right?

“So,” Bahorel grumbled. “Jehan. My little bird. Why are you running around with these fuckers?”

When he nodded his head to indicate Montparnasse and Brujon, he lilted his voice to make it seem almost jovial. Light-hearted. But Grantaire could see the distrust in his eyes.

Jehan didn’t. Or at the very least, they pretended not to.

“I just ran into them. And I know they’re R’s friends. They only hang out all the time.”

“Not all the time,” Grantaire said under his breath.

But he was forced to admit to himself that it was a statement that was becoming more and more true. He was spending way more time than he liked to admit with people he didn’t even like just for E.

E… E… E…

Enj…

No.

Not a ghost.

Definitely not a ghost.

He was going crazy. Fuck. He was insane.

When the waiter handed him his drink, he snatched it out of his hand with a vicious need.

“Sorry, Feuilly,” Bahorel chuckled. “Our friend R likes his drink.”

Grantaire mumbled an apology and drank. He didn’t even remember what it was he had ordered. He didn’t taste a thing.

“And anyway,” Jehan continued. “We are friends with R and therefore friends by proxy.”

Jehan grinned at Montparnasse.

“You are welcome at our table any time.”

Montparnasse smiled in a peculiar way. Like Grantaire had never seen before.

He glanced down at his phone.

_With M now… can’t text_

He cleared his throat.

“Well,” he bit out, lifting the mere sip left in his glass bitterly, “Here’s to poor Champmathieu. May he live the rest of his life uneventfully.”

“And Madeleine,” Courfeyrac added, without lifting a glass. “May he live free.”

They all nodded.

Montparnasse smiled a more familiar smile.

A dangerous smile.

“And to our poor departed Fameuil, a very good friend of mine. May he rest in peace.”

He met Grantaire’s eyes as Grantaire finished off his drink.

His phone buzzed.

_sorry_

“I didn’t know you were friends with the deceased judge,” Jehan said.

“Of course.”

Montparnasse said it with a grin, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Grantaire felt very sick. He didn’t think anyone noticed.

“I imagine I’ll see you at the funeral, then,” Jehan continued.

“Of course.”

Then Brujon spoke for the first time since Grantaire had been there, looking up from the plate of fries he had emptied long ago, in his low and wheezy voice.

“It’s a terrible thing.”

Montparnasse cut his eyes at him. Even frowned.  
Grantaire was used to that. It hadn’t taken him long to realize how much disdain Montparnasse held for his so-called friends.

But Grantaire was not prepared for the next words that came out of his mouth.

“Terrible thing to be killed by a ghost. They say that if you’re killed by a ghost, you’re doomed to become one, too. I liked Fameuil. He doesn’t deserve that.”

Of course Brujon knew about the ghost. And of course he believed it. Of course.

Why was Grantaire even surprised anymore?

“We ruled Fameuil’s death a suicide,” Courfeyrac spat out from across the table, looking up sharply and suddenly and growing stiff in his seat. “Case closed.”

“I don’t know,” Jehan murmured, twirling their hair. “If the ghost did it, I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“Jehan.”

Courfeyrac swallowed. He blinked several times. He cleared his throat and seemed to weigh his next words very carefully before he let himself speak. And when he did speak, he spoke with extreme caution. Using the same strategy in speaking that one could expect trained hands to use when diffusing a bomb.

“Jehan, you know I’m no nonbeliever. You know I believe in the ghost just as much as you do. But listen. Trust me. I know. I know for a fact. This was a suicide. The poor ghost had nothing to do with it. It’s be smart of us to leave him out of it.”

Grantaire glanced back down at his phone, but there were no messages.

He glanced back up.

“Courf, you really believe in the ghost?”

Courfeyrac looked at him with a frown. He closed and then opened his mouth again.

“I do.”

“But… How can you?”

Jehan spoke before Courfeyrac could.

“Courfeyrac has seen the ghost,” they chirped excitedly. “Haven’t you, Courf?”

Courfeyrac swallowed.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I have.”

Seen him.

Grantaire felt so, extremely sick. He needed desperately to talk to Courfeyrac. In private.

About E.

About what he knew.

What he knew…

God, he felt insane.

He needed another drink.

And then Brujon was opening his mouth again.

“I’ve seen him, too.”

Silence. Courfeyrac was rigid beside Grantaire. Like a board. And the look in his eyes was cold.

“What?”

Brujon curled his lip. “What’s so hard to believe about it? You’ve seen him. Well, so have I.”

“Brujon,” Montparnasse whispered ferally. “Play nice.”

“Tell me,” Jehan insisted, leaning forward on their elbows, unaware of the way Courfeyrac’s jaw was clenched. “Tell me what you saw. Courf refuses to say anything.”

“I don’t think it’s right to speak of the dead. Bad taste. And bad luck,” Courfeyrac hissed.

He glared at Brujon in warning.

But Brujon would not be deterred.

“I don’t believe that. And I’m a superstitious guy.”

“Oh, let him tell his story,” Bahorel said. “It won’t hurt anything.”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Courfeyrac insisted.

But it was all in vain. Because Brujon leaned forward, as well, knocking elbows with Jehan. And he opened his mouth.

“He’s horrible. You know, they say he’s the one who owned the place back when it was a private mansion. The master of the house. The drug lord.”

“I know the story,” Jehan said.

But Grantaire didn’t.

“But I don’t.”

Brujon glanced at him.

“Well, back when the cops found everything out and got their warrant, they searched and searched the place. The family was long gone, or so they thought. The state seized the property and eventually, when the old courthouse burned down, they decided to move their base of operations there. You know that. Everyone knows that. But see, the guy was smart. Cunning. No one could figure out how they could have gotten out of the city that fast and evaded the law, but I have a theory. Secret tunnels.”

Courfeyrac’s knuckles were clenched so hard they were white.

“I’d be willing to bet anything he had tunnels built in the walls of that house. Maybe even a secret room, for if they needed to disappear for a little while. A few months. For things to blow over so they could get out easily. But it wasn’t long before the state was scrambling for a new courthouse. Renovations went quickly. Everyone was in a hurry.”

“The secret passages would have been sealed up,” Jehan added in proudly.

Courfeyrac swallowed.

Brujon nodded.

“Yep. So basically, the legend is the guy and his family got trapped. People say they ran out of food and water. They couldn’t get out. They began to starve. First, they killed their baby son. Out of desperation. Some say they ate him. Then, the youngest daughter. Then, the oldest.”

This definitely wasn’t making Grantaire feel less sick.

“Then, he killed his wife. And he just slowly wasted away in the walls of the place. No water. No food. No sunlight. They say he began to rot before he even died.”

Brujon jabbed his finger emphatically at no one in particular.

“And I know that that’s the truth. Because I’ve seen him. I’ve seen his face. And he looks like something that’s been dead a very long time.”

Courfeyrac turned in his seat.

“Where’s Feuilly?” he said hoarsely. “I need a drink.”

“He has a death’s head. Grotesque, mottled flesh melting off his face. Great black hole where his nose is missing. Big, sunken, ghostly eyes that glow in the dark. A lipless, dead mouth. You can see his gnarled, bare teeth. Built of death from head to foot. He has to wander the courthouse for eternity, deformed and disgusting, to atone for his sins.”

Grantaire felt cold. A mask, with two eye holes cut in it. One pale, ghostly eye.

Grantaire didn’t believe the story. Of course he didn’t. He could say that with confidence.

And Grantaire didn’t believe in ghosts.

Right?

“Shut up, Brujon,” Courfeyrac called out finally.

Grantaire had never seen Courfeyrac angry before.

And he was angry.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Fameuil committed suicide. I was at the crime scene. I was one of the investigators. I know. And you don’t. And you shouldn’t talk about things that you don’t know about. You shouldn’t talk about the ghost.”

“If you were at the crime scene,” Brujon said smoothly, “then you should know about the note.”

“Feuilly,” Grantaire called roughly, looking around desperately for the familiar red curly hair.

“How do you know about the note?” Courfeyrac asked coldly.

Brujon smirked.

“Oh, by now everyone has heard about the note.”

“You shouldn’t talk about that,” Courfeyrac hissed.

Feuilly was nowhere to be seen. And so, Grantaire was forced to turn back around in his seat and observe in horror as his mouth opened without his brain’s permission and he began to speak.

“What did the note say?”

It was not Brujon that answered him, but Montparnasse.

“ _The ghost will haunt me until I am dead.”_

Grantaire felt cold. And yet, at the same time, he didn’t feel anything at all. Rather, he felt oddly numb. Almost relaxed.

He needed a drink. So, so desperately.

“I wouldn’t share that information,” Courfeyrac said. “I wouldn’t talk about the ghost, if I were you. Bad things could happen.”

“Oh,” Brujon jibed. “Bad things like having your throat slit with a knife?”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Courfeyrac snapped before shoving back and unceremoniously bolting from the table.

Numb.

That was the feeling.

Numb.

Grantaire didn’t believe in ghosts.

Maybe.

But he knew for sure that he didn’t believe the story. And he didn’t believe Fameuil’s death was anything other than a suicide.

Silence. More aching silence.

“I don’t think, if the ghost did kill Fameuil, it would have been out of malice.”

Jehan spoke slowly, staring after Courfeyrac with a guilty frown.

“Maybe he didn’t kill him at all. But if he did something like that, it would have been understandable. Imagine being trapped in those walls for years and years. Without anyone to talk to. Without any companionship. Without a soul to share eternity with and without a hand to hold. Imagine the toll. It’s heartbreaking, really. Don’t you think, R?”

Grantaire rubbed his eyes.

He needed a break.

He needed to think.

But he didn’t believe in ghosts. No. Of course not.

And at this point he had much bigger things to think about.

“Mmhmm,” he answered.

Jehan sighed, forlorn.

“I imagine it must be incredibly lonely being a ghost.”

Without really thinking about it, Grantaire opened the phone. Opened up the messages.

_Things are slow… what’s ur favorite color?_

And he sent it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go! And can I just say, I’ve been blown away by your comments like!!!! Thank you!!! Keep it up!!!! Additionally, yes Grantaire is my Christine, but I think the Raoul will surprise you. That is, after all, where the fake relationship comes in :) No love triangle here, just someone who will be pining in misery because he thinks there is one.  
> Also, very excited someone mentioned Daroga! He never gets enough love. Most of the Phantom elements I’m pulling in are from the novel, so.... :)  
> Keep leaving your guesses about what’s going to happen below. I love it!


	5. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras grows desperate. And he can’t stop thinking about Grantaire.

Leverage.

Enjolras looked down at his phone, again at the last text Grantaire had sent him, before he entered the courtroom.

_So you do have a sense of humor then. Weird. Totally out of left field. Didn’t expect that of you. Tsk tsk. Oh and btw, left you a little present in courtroom c… cleaning out some of my old shit and it made me think of you. Very ghostly._

Enjolras smiled despite himself.

He was currently cramped in the very narrow space behind the courtroom where the trial of Jean Valjean, formerly known as Mayor Madeleine, had just commenced. He was staring through the air vent that wasn’t really connected to any other air vents, just watching. Holding his breath.

Grantaire was there, too. Sitting next to Jean Prouvaire, who Enjolras had never actually met but had heard a lot about.

It wasn’t until the prosecutor had finished speaking and went to sit down that Enjolras realized he had been so absorbed with staring out at Grantaire that he hadn’t even noticed what was going on.

He clenched his jaw.

When had he become so stupid?

He slid his eyes over to where Javert stood. Javert.

Javert was the most powerful tool prosecution had. And he was far more than that.

The suicide note Fameuil had left didn’t sit well with him. Enjolras could tell. And Javert was not a superstitious man.

Enjolras had come across him fiddling around the mirror in the first-floor bathroom. Staring at it like he could tell it wasn’t ordinary glass. Like he was trying to figure out how to open it.

Like he knew.

Javert turned his head and Enjolras could swear he was staring straight at him. Enjolras’s breath caught in his throat and he quickly turned his attention to the judge’s chair.

The judge overseeing the trial now was Tholomyes. The powers in place, whomever they were, had determined that it had become too high-profile a case for Blachevelle. Enjolras could see the logic behind that. But it just made it more important than ever to have leverage. To be able to control Tholomyes.

Jean Valjean was a good man. But Enjolras wasn’t simply moved to sympathy for him because of any inherent goodness, but because the results in his district spoke for themselves. Lower crime and unemployment. A more tolerant community. Sure, this would forever be a blight on his record and his character. He would never hold public office again. But he himself was too valuable a member of the community to allow wiped from memory.

Jean Valjean, as mayor or not, was too valuable.

Enjolras needed leverage.

And leverage he had.

Leverage with blonde hair and a delicate frame, freshly graduated from high school, and engaged to Marius Pontmercy. Another name Enjolras had grown familiar with over the years without ever actually meeting the guy.

Valjean’s adopted daughter, currently being summoned to the stand to speak on her father’s behalf.

And Tholomyes’s biological, abandoned child.

The information had come to him easily. Courtesy of Joly, actually. He had found her birth certificate in the county system with the access provided by his job in healthcare management.

He was eager to help out his severely unfortunate friend and maybe Enjolras hadn’t told him why he needed the information.

Enjolras would have gone to Combeferre first, of course. Usually. But…

But he didn’t.

Enjolras worked his jaw as Cosette recited the abuses of her childhood.

Abuses, Enjolras though a little bit smugly, that resulted from Tholomyes’s abandonment.

All he had to do was present the information.

And that wasn’t all he had.

A letter. Included in the envelope alongside the letter, a copy of an old police report.

That, Courfeyrac provided him. He had brought it when he visited the day before, looking harrowed. He barely spoke, but Enjolras didn’t really have time to ask what was wrong. He had to deliver the letter. Personally. To ensure justice would have her day in court. And to ensure that day might be pushed a little bit further away so the Jean Valjean’s lawyer could strengthen his defense.

“Are you sure this is right?” Courfeyrac, forever loyal and forever a mediator, had asked him when he brought the report. “Are you sure you should be doing this?”

“Courf,” Enjolras had assured him. “We can’t let Mad- … Valjean face a corrupt and unfair justice system alone. He’s served his community well. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Courfeyrac had nodded, looked at his feet.

“Also,” he muttered, eyes still cast down, “you know if you want to talk, you can always talk to me.”

“I know, Courf. Thank you. Thank you for… for everything.”

“I know you’re having a rough time, especially lately. And not just because of the trials and the death and… old faces turning up but because… You know why.”

Enjolras had nodded. “I do. But you can say it, you know. It’s just a word. Anniversary. People have anniversaries all the time for all kinds of things. Birthdays are anniversaries, kind of. Why shouldn’t death-days be?”

“Enj, you didn’t die. You’re here. Still with us. You’re alive.”

Enjolras had said nothing.

And then Courfeyrac was turning to leave, saying his goodbyes.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras had called after him.

Courfeyrac had turned.

“Please don’t mention this to Combeferre. He… He worries about me too much.”

Courfeyrac had offered him a wan smile that left him feeling cold. “Don’t we all?”

And then, after a brief consideration, he had left Enjolras with these parting words.

“Please try to eat something tonight. I know, you have a lot to do before trial tomorrow and whatever, but please. Please eat something. Don’t make excuses and forget to again. You have to keep yourself alive. You’re… You’re starting to look like a skeleton.”

And then he left.

Enjolras had eaten a packet of Ramen noodles he heated up in the microwave.

And then he delivered the letter.

And now he watched, barely breathing, as Cosette came down from the stand and Valjean’s lawyer rose to speak.

He spared another glance at Grantaire, hunched over his drawing. Black curls draped over his forehead. A smudge of ink or pencil lead wiped on his stubbly cheek. The bulbous nose. The dark, sunken eyes. The long fingers. So achingly familiar. Like a memory. Like a dream.

Grantaire had been the last person to see him as he was before. Other than, just briefly, Fameuil.

Enjolras wondered how he remembered him.

“I’d like to call the prosecution to the stand.”

The man in question narrowed his eyes and stuttered, but Tholomyes merely raised an eyebrow.

 “I’ll allow it.”

Valjean’s lawyer smiled.

“Mr. Boulanger. You have been quite relentless over the course of this trial, haven’t you? First, you prosecuted an innocent man, Champmathieu, to the point of a guilty verdict. And then you stayed on. Now you prosecute my client.”

“Objection!” Boulanger cried.

Valjean’s lawyer grinned. Enjolras was staring at Grantaire again. The way he kept his eyes down, trained on his art, like he wasn’t really paying attention to anything going on in the courtroom.

That smudge on his face.

“I wonder… Boulanger,” the lawyer was saying. “Any relation to Jean Boulanger? He’s a baker.”

“My older brother, Jean, is indeed a baker,” he responded tightly.

“The same baker that filed the police report against Jean Valjean when he was only 26, resulting in a sentence that cost him nineteen years of his life?”

Boulanger opened his mouth to speak, but the lawyer swept on before he could.

“Is it possible that your closeness to the crime has clouded your ability to assemble a rational and sound prosecution? Isn’t it possible that you might not be the best person to act in this trial? Might it not be wise, your honor, to replace Boulanger with someone impartial? Someone who would not be so blinded by his own personal family vendetta that he almost condemned an innocent man? Your honor, I ask that someone else take over for Boulanger, so that justice can be guaranteed. So that innocent men may remain free and guilty men face their punishment.”

Tholomyes stared, leaned back in his chair with a wry smile.

“This would delay the trial quite a bit.”

“We must do what is in the interest of justice and justice takes time.”

Enjolras had to give the man credit. He was as cunning and smooth with his words as Enjolras would say he once was. Enjolras admired him.

The crowd loved him. The jury loved him.

Tholomyes had no choice but to humor him.

Enjolras could see it etched in his face. He knew everything that was going to happen. Everything that he set in motion with the letter. Valjean needed a few days. Now he had it.

But his work was not done.

Leverage.

With one last look at Grantaire, he crept away deeper into the walls, navigating the now-familiar passageways toward Courtroom C.

It was empty this time of day. No trials. No business. Not even a custodian or a janitor in and out of the room. Enjolras was able to slip in through the trap door that opened up under the witness box. When they had remodeled the building, they had put it there. Right on top. But it wasn’t screwed into the floors. Wasn’t bolted down. And built of surprisingly light material. Enjolras needed only to slide open the trapdoor, dig his fingers in the rivets of the wood, and push. It moved with a scraping sound, and Enjolras was able to wriggle out in an undignified manner out of the narrow slot afforded him.

He glanced around, ready for some great search, but he saw it as soon as he rose to his feet he saw it. Sitting in the witness box. Where Enjolras had sat when he handed Grantaire the purse that belonged to Montparnasse.

There was a sticky note on it, where Grantaire had scrawled a few words.

_The one you wear seems hot and stuffy. It might not be summer anymore, but it’s still hot outside. Plus, this one will help out with your image. You’re going for ghost, right? I mean, you’re not very convincing, but you do you._

Enjolras held the white opera mask in his hands.

He needed to talk to Tholomyes.

 

He waited for him in his office. In his chair. At his desk.

He was wearing the mask Grantaire had given him.

He wasn’t sure why.

It did make him ghostlier, though. He had to admit it. And he needed all the help he could get when it came to Tholomyes.

He had to keep himself from flinching when he heard the familiar click of the door unlocking. Force himself into a relaxed position so he could greet Tholomyes with an advantage. Assume a position of power.

The door opened. Tholomyes fumbled in the dark for the light switch and when he found it and caught sight of Enjolras, he only frowned in irritation.

“What are you doing in here?”

Enjolras swallowed.

“The Valjean trial seems to be going well.”

“Get out.”

“No.”

Tholomyes narrowed his eyes at him. Crossed his arms.

“You didn’t answer my letters,” Enjolras said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Tholomyes said in lieu of an answer.

Enjolras pursed his lips.

“Your mistake.”

With a sigh, he rose up from the desk and moved into a corner of the room, sweeping like a shadow,

He hoped he was menacing enough.

He hoped he was playing his role perfectly.

“You might be more comfortable if you take a seat. This may very well be a long conversation.”

“It won’t be,” Tholomyes sneered.

Still, though, he crossed the room, albeit with clear hesitation, and found his way to his chair. Watching Enjolras the entire time, he lowered himself into it.

“That all depends on you. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste time convincing me of your character or how you’re above bribes and blackmail. We both know it’d be a lie. I am aware of your connection to the Jondrette family. And don’t think I don’t know about Montparnasse. That was a large sum of money you left him in that purse. In Courtroom C. Small black leather handbag with a tasseled zipper.”

Tholomyes shut his eyes.

 “What is it you want from me?”

Enjolras offered a half-smile.

“There are two things I want that you can give me. First, I want Valjean to walk. I don’t care how. I just want him free.”

Tholomyes sighed. “That’s quite the task you’re asking of me.”

“Second,” Enjolras continued. “Javert. I want him out of this district. Transfer him. Give him a promotion. I don’t care. I just want him gone.”

Tholomyes stared at him, his frown straightening out slightly into almost a half-smile.

“Poor Fameuil. Died so suddenly don’t you think?”

Enjolras heard the danger in his voice. He pursed his lips as Tholomyes continued.

“Oddest things he told me once, when he was drunk and afraid. About the ghost that haunted his every waking hour. Even at his home. With a face scarred by acid. He seemed convinced that it was the poor young man his son had killed. Taking his revenge for being deprived of justice.”

“Fameuil was a superstitious fool,” Enjolras said quickly. “And I imagine he projected his guilt onto me because he could. But you’re a smart man. And, after all, you said you don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Hm.”

He sighed.

“I imagine you have something tangible on me to convince me to comply. You say I’m a smart man. You know I can’t be blackmailed with things you can’t prove, like my supposed affiliation with Montparnasse and the Jondrettes. Tell me what you have that’s real.”

“Her name is Cosette,” Enjolras supplied.

He watched as Tholomyes frowned again.

“Or perhaps you knew her as Euphrasie. That’s her legal name. Her mother was Fantine. I’m sure you remember that name. You abandoned both of them when Cosette was three years old, forcing them into poverty. Her mother died and Cosette faced years of abuse by her foster family. You might recognize her. She was at the trial today. Valjean adopted her. I have her birth certificate. The complaints and visits from Child Services. Hospital Records. And if you don’t help me, I will release the documents to the press.”

Tholomyes was silent for a moment. That moment stretched. The silence was stiff and uncomfortable. Tholomyes, with his brow furrowed, looking down at is desk. Enjolras watched his expressionless face as he finally betrayed a trace of emotion. And then, as he broke out into a grin.

Enjolras watched, horrified, as Tholomyes began to laugh.

“Nothing! That’s what you have! You really don’t have anything!”

Enjolras stared as Tholomyes cackled.

“You have… what? A birth certificate with my name on it? Details about the mother? The dead mother. The prostitute. The criminal. Do you know how bad that looks? Do you think that when people hear about a penniless whore who gave her daughter away they will look on her with sympathy? Compared to me, an esteemed public figure.”

He shook his head.

“All I need to do is say the mother lied to me. Kept my daughter from me. How much I grieved for my little lost child. Maybe Fantine even had a drug problem. Perhaps she let men have her child for the night in exchange for some extra money. There are so many ways I can tell this story. And then what of Jean Valjean? No. You really don’t have anything. Thank you for giving me peace of mind.”

Tholomyes pointed toward the door.

“And now I think it is time for you to leave.”

Enjolras set his jaw and prowled forward, standing across from Tholomyes with just the desk in between them. He planted his hands on the hard, glossy wood.

“What about your wife? You have a wife, don’t you? I’m sure she wouldn’t be too pleased to hear about the affair that took place in the first few years of your marriage, regardless of the outcome. I’m sure she wouldn’t like to hear about the bastard child you never told her about.”

Tholomyes was nonplussed.

“You really don’t know anything, do you? Of course you don’t. If you did, you would know that my wife and I have been separated for over ten years, divorced officially for five now. She certainly would not be phased by whatever exploits of mine you told her about.”

He shook his head.

“So. I’ll have to ask you again to leave.”

Enjolras, desperate and frustrated, began to back away from the desk. He glanced around the room while his mind drew a blank.

This hadn’t happened before. Even after he lost everything, he still had his cunning. His ability to out-talk. His magnetism. Now, with Tholomyes, he seemed to be at a loss. He needed to figure something out.

Anything.

He needed this. He needed to help Valjean, to secure justice. It was all he had now.

And he was failing.

Everything else, everything he could have been, had been stripped away from him. This was all he could do to make a difference, so he was going to do it well. He had to do it well.

Leverage.

He caught sight of a picture.

And chills began to creep up his arms.

His mouth felt dry as he recognized the curly hair. The frown. The dark circles under those eyes that looked so uncomfortable. Trapped in a suit with Tholomyes on one side and a stern woman on the other. The nose was still well-formed.

It hadn’t been broken yet.

He looked so young.

Everything was falling into place. Pieces set into motion that Enjolras hadn’t even realized were there. It clicked, somewhere in his brain. And it made him feel cold. It made him feel scared and ashamed and horrible.

But he knew what he had to do.

“I didn’t realize you had a son,” he said hoarsely.

Tholomyes’s eyes narrowed.

“Get out,” he repeated.

Enjolras did.


	6. The Phantom of the Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the anniversary of Enjolras’s death and Grantaire might be going a little crazy.

Cosette had to be the sweetest person Grantaire had ever met. With her sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks and a cherubic pout that would pull into a smile as she brushed her hand comfortingly up and down his arm. She was overwhelmingly soft, just as a person.

He had crashed into her in the lobby after another grueling session for Valjean’s trial. Not paying attention, as usual. Not looking where he was going, as usual. Like the bumbling mess he was. But he had some excuse. He had been shaken, thrown for the biggest of loops, by the text Montparnasse had just sent him.

_got another favor to call in if your up for it_

Was he up for it?

No. Of course not. The very thought of doing another favor for Montparnasse made him want to throw up. Made him want to get very, very drunk.

But he had made a deal, hadn’t he?

So he had that on his mind, his phone in his hand, as he hurried out of the courtroom, the overwhelming feeling that he was being watched haunting him.

And the small fact that it was five years ago today that the great bully of a boy Fameuil Jr. turned up at the police station, sobering up from a nasty bender and raving about how he killed a kid from his class. Thrown acid in his face and then buried him somewhere. Anywhere. He couldn’t even remember where.

So Grantaire had bumped into her. No. That was wrong. He had barreled into her, completely knocking the both of the off of their feet and causing his sketches to scatter all over. He had apologized heartily, scrambling to get his stuff together after checking to ensure she was okay first. But she didn’t seem perturbed. Not by him, Not even by being on the floor. She smiled at him and helped him gather up his sketches. And then when they were both back on their feet, she introduced herself.

Grantaire couldn’t help it. He frowned.

All this time, Grantaire had sketched the trial. And he felt distant from it. He couldn’t even muster the energy to care about himself anymore. He didn’t care about Jean Valjean. The trial was television to him. Entertainment. The dozens of furrowed brows and stern faces a means of making his job just a little less dull.

But here was the girl who took the stand for her father. Flesh and bone. Like him. Talking and smiling like nothing was the matter.

He was frowning as he tried to tell her his name, but the first syllable was barely out of his mouth when he promptly burst into tears.

Cosette asked no questions. Didn’t even drop her smile. But suddenly she was leading him out the doors of the courthouse with a sure step. And suddenly they were seated across from each other at a nearby coffee shop. Grantaire was nursing a hot tea she bought him while she filled the silence with comforting stories about her dear father from her childhood.

During a lull in the conversation, Grantaire apologized for burdening her with his emotions, and told her that it was the anniversary of a friend’s death.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. And Grantaire had never heard someone sound that sincere before in his life.

Grantaire shrugged miserably.

“I’m going to his grave tonight. Like I always do.”

“But it’s always hard,” Cosette supplied.

Grantaire nodded.

Cosette offered a faint, gentle smile. “It’s like that. It’s been more than ten years since my mother died. And I don’t know exactly when she died. What day. I wasn’t with her. I was… with a family. A horrible family. But it was winter. And cold. My father says she died of pneumonia. Common enough. And it doesn’t have to be deadly. But she was poor. And on the streets. It was Christmastime.”

Cosette stirred her drink, casting her white eyelashes downward and tucking her chin again her turtleneck.

“I hate Christmastime.”

Grantaire sighed.

“I miss him so much.”

“Time doesn’t help,” Cosette murmured. “They say it does, but it doesn’t.”

They stewed for a moment in restless silence. Cosette, blinking morosely down at her macchiato. And him, tight-lipped with all the things he wanted to get off his chest that he couldn’t burden an almost-stranger with.

“It helps, though,” she said as she looked back up at him. “Talking about it. That is something that helps.”

“Talking.” Grantaire shook his head. “Easier said than done. Hard to talk when you have no one to talk to. I had no brothers or sisters. My parents were shit. My dad especially. Grade A asshole. And… I guess… well, it always feels like no one ever really is my friend. Like… I have friends. But I don’t know. It feels like they’re just my friends because they pity me. They keep me around because they pity me. Why should I overstep my bounds?”

He swallowed, before bowing his head, cheeks red-hot and flushed with shame and embarrassment. For what he just said. And for realizing it was what he really believed as the words left his mouth.

“Well,” Cosette said with a slow smile. “Now you have me.”

And with that, she grabbed a napkin and scribbled her number on it before sliding it over to him.

“Disclaimer,” she said cheerily. “I am engaged. Not into you. I want to be your friend. That is all.”

She gave him a cheeky wink.

“Sorry. I’m a friendly person. I’ve gotten too many unwanted dick pics in my life not to be a little careful.”

Grantaire laughed then. Deep and genuine.

“Believe me. I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good.”

They both took sips from their respective drinks, smiling at each other over the rims of their cups.

“And you didn’t miss out,” she added. “Not having siblings. I had… let’s call her a foster sister. And she definitely wasn’t talking me through my emotions. She hated me. She was horrible to me.”

She considered him. Then smirked.

“But I don’t know. Maybe you might have made a good brother. And you could have talked to me.”

Grantaire smiled at her.

But his mind was still so far away. Thinking about Enjolras.

Thinking about the ghost.

The ghost. Was it a ghost? Grantaire didn’t believe in ghosts. That’s what he told himself. But there were so many things. Too many. Too many things and too many coincidences and too much unknown. Grantaire felt like he couldn’t even tell up from down anymore. Would believing in ghosts really be so crazy?

What if…

Might Enjolras be a ghost somewhere? Floating around his grave. Not the honorary one, with the flowers and the gravestone but nothing buried under the soggy turf. The real one. The one Fameuil claimed was out there somewhere, but the police could never find.

Was his body decomposing while his soul was tethered to its rot?

Grantaire felt the tears threatening him again. He swallowed them back with a final gulp of scalding tea.

Was Enjolras lonely?

“It was really nice meeting you,” Grantaire told her. “Which is something I can’t honestly say often. I’m meeting a few of my friends for drink, though, and I’m already late.”

He paused.

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind the extra company if you wanted to come with, though?”

Grantaire immediately regretted that. He wondered distantly if he was overstepping his bounds. With Cosette or with his friends. He didn’t even know which. But Cosette was already shaking her head.

“No. Tonight is my date night with Marius.”

“Pontmercy?” Grantaire asked, suddenly surprised.

Cosette grinned. “That’s the one!”

“Well,” Grantaire said, rising from his seat. And grabbing his shoulder bag. “I’m sure you two make a cute couple. And thank you. For everything. The talk and the tea and… everything. It’s more than what I could ask for.”

“It’s only what you deserve.”

Grantaire swallowed.

“Thank you again.”

Cosette rose up from her seat as well, then. And side by side they walked out of the coffee shop, Grantaire holding the door for her politely and waving as they parted ways on the sidewalk just out front.

Was Enjolras lonely? Sad?

Could he still feel pain?

How much did he hurt? Would he hurt always?

No. Grantaire couldn’t believe in ghosts. Because he couldn’t live knowing Enjolras’s suffering was far from over. That it would never end.

“Oh,” Grantaire said with the slightest irritation as he made his way back to their usual table. “You’re here again.”

Brujon sneered up at him. Bahorel and Courfeyrac sat opposite, both greeting Grantaire with dour little waves that reflected exactly what they thought about their current company.

Surprisingly, Eponine was there, too. Grantaire raised his eyebrows at her.

She shrugged, taking a sip of her beer.

“I like drinks.”

She pointed directly at Bahorel, unabashedly.

“I like his jokes,” she deadpanned.

Bahorel laughed heartily at that, his sour mood dissipating. Grantaire felt his lips tug. Bahorel was never one to hold onto negativity.

Brujon sneered up at him.

“Too bad Montparnasse couldn’t make it,” he growled. He narrowed his eyes at Courfeyrac and Bahorel. “He needed to ask you something.”

Grantaire felt his blood run cold as he took a seat.

Brujon kept on.

“Yeah. Something important, apparently. I personally don’t think you can handle it.”

He stared at Grantaire.

“I personally don’t think you can be trusted with it.”

“Shut up,” Eponine snapped at him.

Bahorel looked between the three of them before finally levelling his gaze on Grantaire.

“Tell me you’re not getting caught up with these guys.”

Before Grantaire could answer, Courfeyrac cut in.

“I’m sure he’s not.”

Bahorel didn’t seem worried. He waved a hand and called out.

“Feuilly! Another beer for our new lovely lady friend. And one to start R off.”

“Lite for me!” Eponine added as Feuilly nodded and disappeared from whence he came.

Brujon leaned over, close enough to whisper in Grantaire’s ear.

“I don’t trust you,” he said, as though he didn’t think he was clear enough before.

Grantaire grit his teeth. “So you said.”

Feuilly brought the beers over, already uncapped, and set the down on the table. Grantaire made a grab for his.

A phone buzzed in his pocket. He wasn’t entirely sure which it was. He didn’t even care.

He didn’t even check.

He drank.

On his other side, Courfeyrac gave him a private, comforting nudge. Grantaire looked at him. Courfeyrac shared a bittersweet incline of his head.

Without Grantaire making any sort of move, he pushed his glass against Grantaire’s bottle, the clinking noise that resulted ringing through the air and through Grantaire’s mind.

“To Enjolras,” he whispered.

Grantaire swallowed.

“To Enjolras.”

He took a long drink.

Bahorel and Eponine were chatting, seemingly amicable. Brujon was sulking.

Grantaire thought of Enjolras. All alone.

His phone buzzed again.

Who knows which?

Who cares?

Grantaire lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Funny.

It felt unusually heavy.

Everything felt heavy.

He took another drink. And another.

He finished the whole bottle. Just like that.

“Ran into Valjean’s daughter today,” he said for no reason at all. Everyone looked at him. Like he was suddenly the most interesting person there.

He lowered his hand back to the table. Slowly. Flexed his fingers. Slowly.

Eponine in particular was staring at him with an unreadable look. Her face seemed oddly pale.

“Cosette,” he elaborated. As if he even needed to.”

Eponine stared.

“I love Cosette!” Bahorel said happily. “What a little angel!”

“Cosette…” Brujon said.

Grantaire looked at him. Slowly.

His head hurt.

Brujon turned to Eponine.

“Isn’t that the little bitch your family used to-”

“Shut it,” she hissed at him.

Grantaire frowned.

“Eponine, why don’t you ever talk about your family?”

Did those words really just come out of his mouth. He blinked. He frowned. Why had he said that? Every person at the table was looking at him. Frowning.

“Are you okay, dipshit?” Eponine asked him, voice betraying affection.

“Why don’t you ever talk about your family?”

Brujon answered for her, seemingly the only one unbothered by Grantaire’s behavior.

“No one talks about the Jondrettes,” he said.

Weirdly. Brujon was weird.

Grantaire opened his mouth to question that, but shut it.

The air tasted salty.   
Did that make sense?

No one else seemed to question Brujon or his oddly evasive statement. They were too busy staring at Grantaire.

“Grantaire.” Courfeyrac this time, leaning forward. “Are you okay?”

Grantaire shrugged.

“Are any of us?”

Courfeyrac lifted his eyebrows, face wrinkling with concern.

“Grantaire-”

“Maybe I should head out early,” he supposed, frowning. “Sorry, guys. I feel like… Just kind of loopy. Loopy.”

He looked around at the worried faces.

“I should go,” he said.

He began to fumble around in his pocket for his wallet. He felt Courfeyrac’s hand stop his.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said kindly. “Just get home safe, okay? Text us when you’re home safe?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, rising from his seat. He was very much aware of all of them. All of them watching him. “Yeah, okay.”

Heavy. Slow.

Slowly.

He walked away slowly, knowing their eyes followed him as he went.

 

He didn’t go home.

He said he was going to visit Enjolras’s grave. And he was.

It was quiet there. It always was. Especially at dusk. It was dusk now. A foggy, humid night. Half the graves obscured in the thick, rolling fog. The moon hanging in the sky opposite the sun. A sprinkling of stars suspended in the twilight.

Grantaire stood before the solemn tombstone, hands in his pockets. Staring.

“Beloved son and friend,” he found himself saying aloud.

His worlds came slowly.

Heavily.

His head hurt.

There were no flowers. Never any flowers. Grantaire always felt like he should bring some, but never could remember.

He was forgetful like that. Useless like that.

He should be buried somewhere. Him. Not Enjolras. Enjolras could have changed the world.

He would have.

Grantaire just made shitty art and drank his life away.

It was shitty, Grantaire mused. Enjolras had so many friends. And yet none of them bothered to bring flowers to his grave. What a sorry lot they were. How pathetic. It spoke volumes about humanity.

Enjolras had always chided him for being a cynic. Well, how could he not be? What was a cynic but a realist? Who was he to deny the truth?

“I should be dead,” he spoke to the grave.

His words were almost slurred.

“I should be there. In the ground. Not you. Or, if you had to die, I wish I could have been there. With you. I’d have died with you, if you’d have let me.”

He licked his lips.

Slowly.

The fog was getting thicker. Or was it just clouds in his eyes?

Was the fog there?

Really?

Was it even real?

Was he?

“I really should be dead. Not you. Enjolras.”

He said the name like a prayer.

“Enjolras.”

He let it hang in the air.

“I would have taken your place. Traded your life for mine. Died for you. With you. For you. Whatever you asked. Whatever you needed.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“There are so many things I wish I could have done differently. Said differently. Every year I come here. And I think maybe I can say them. Like you could hear me. I wish you could. Then, I might say them. I might finally get everything off my chest. But you can’t hear me, can you?”

He swallowed.

“Can you?”

Heavy.

So heavy.

He shook his head.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Enjolras? I thought I didn’t. But then I met a ghost.”

He snorted.

“I guess that’s just how it goes. You don’t believe something until you see it.”

His head hurt.

“Enjolras. I love you. More than a little bit. A whole lot. And not loved. Not past tense. Enjolras, I love you. I don’t think I’ll ever stop. It’s a terrible thing. To be in love with a ghost.”

Hurt. Slow. Slowly.

Heavy.

“Enjolras,” he said again.

No response. Of course not.

“Enjolras.”

Really, what did he think would happen?

It was dark and only getting darker. The moon was rising. The fog was rolling in. Surrounding him. Suffocating him.

And then he saw it.

Somewhere in the fog. Just ahead in the distance. Among the tombstones and bouquets of silk flowers.

A red jacket.

“Enjolras,” he breathed again. Stumbling forward. Eyes glazed. Head pounding.

It got closer. The red jacket. And with it, a body.

A person.

A ghost.

The red jacket. The one Enjolras had been wearing the last time Grantaire had seen him.

When he died. Grantaire’s head pounded. In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Again. Again.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t see. Not really. Not at all.

Just a little.

He could see the blonde curls. The tall frame.

That red jacket.

“Enjolras.”

As the specter got closer, Grantaire noticed the stains marring the jacket. Stains he didn’t remember. Stains that weren’t there.

Thick brownish stains.

He looked at the face. Trying to steal a glimpse. Trying. Trying to see him again. To see him again. But he couldn’t.

The ghost had no face.

“Grantaire,” the ghost called.

Grantaire felt woozy. Dizzy. His head pounded. Everything was heavy. Slow.

He couldn’t tell if this was really happening.

He didn’t care.

Before Grantaire could say anything else, it turned it’s bright red back on him and began to walk away.

“No! Wait!” Grantaire slurred, stumbling after him.

The ground felt soft. Too soft. He felt his feet sink as it pulled at them.

The world was spinning. All he could focus on was that bloodied red jacket.

“Enjolras! Please!”

Spinning. Slowly.

Grantaire’s mouth was dry. Like cotton. Eyelids heavy. Head pounding.

The world kept spinning. Around and around and around.

“Enjolras!”

He was running. Running.

And then he was tripping.

Stumbling.

Falling.

“Enjolras,” he called again to the red jacket.

Slowly.

And then he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! I went on a little break there! So sorry guys. Like for real I’m sorry. My life has gotten a little hectic as of late, so updates might be a little sporadic for a while, but there will be updates! I promise! I also promise that i will! not! abandon! this! story! There will be updates. It will be finished. Just maybe eventually lol. But things are picking up now!! I feel like this is the place the story really begins. All that’s happened before has been set-up. This is the real deal.
> 
> Anyway, drop me a comment below! Whatever you wantto say, I want to read it! If it’s praise or speculation about what’s going to happen or anything in between, I want to hear it! It really does help my motivation no joke. I appreciate you guys so fricking much!!!! You are all so great. So incredible.
> 
> Onward!


	7. The Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has been enduring this for too long. It was really only a matter of time before he snapped. But what could he do now?

Enjolras finally had it.

Leverage.

Something undeniable. Something tangible. Something Tholomyes couldn’t wriggle out of.

His leverage was tethered to his couch using some rope and a bike chain. Enjolras didn’t have much to work with, but his years of lurking in shadows had strengthened his ingenuity. He was more adaptable than ever.

Tholomyes had proved to be an immovable obstacle.

So he adapted.

Grantaire had been heavy.

Enjolras was not strong. He never claimed to be, never pretended to be. He had to drag Grantaire most of the way. And when he had to carry him, he did so on unsteady legs. But he got him there. Wriggled with him through the trap door that led to the rooms hidden between the ceiling of the second level and the floor of the third.

Where he had lived these past five years.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac and the rest of them feared he was losing his mind. Maybe he was. Maybe he was absolutely insane.

Maybe.

He kept trying to convince himself that this was only leverage. That leverage was all Grantaire was. He tied him to the ratty couch that had been left there when the courthouse had still been an ill-begot mansion. But he made sure the bonds were loose, as comfortable as he could make them. He pulled all the pillows off his ratty bed, all the blankets, and arranged them with the utmost care. He heaved Grantaire onto the couch. He tucked him in.

He spent far too long staring at his face, peaceful and clean without the cynicism that polluted it when he was awake.

It was just familiarity, Enjolras tried to convince himself. Just that desperate, lonely part of himself reaching out, trying to find whatever comfort it could.

Grantaire had loved him, once.

He wouldn’t love him now.

Enjolras set the messenger bag Grantaire had with him on his now bare bed.

He worked his jaw.

It had all happened so fast. Not the act itself. But the plan. He wasn’t even entirely sure what exactly he was going to do when he did it. He hadn’t really thought it through at all. The drugs he had picked up from an evidence room they had in the courthouse. Easy. Then, the hard part. The sneaking out.

He had been outside the courthouse so few times in the past five years that he could count them with his fingers. He waited until dark.

He had managed. He had gotten skilled at sneaking around in his tenure as a ghost, good at being invisible.

It was all easy. One inconspicuous text to Courfeyrac. Sneaking, hiding himself away in a dark corner. Watching. Listening. There they had been, Grantaire and Courfeyrac and the rest. A solid, cohesive group. Friends he might have had in another lifetime. He longed for that lifetime. For a chance to know each and every one of them by name.

Bahorel, that was one of them. He recognized him from around court.

The server was distracted easily, as well. And then all it took was slipping the drugs into the beer. And then following Grantaire to the graveyard.

The stage was set. He just needed to play his part.

He wished he had been closer. He had seen Grantaire talking to his grave, to him. Mouth moving. Eyes watering. He wished he could have heard what he said.

He was crazy.

He was absolutely insane.

He was in pain, so in pain. So beyond what he should be, what he used to be. The person he had once been, once known. He was spiraling. He missed his old life. He longed for it. But he couldn’t have it back. How ungrateful he had once been. With a beauty he didn’t earn and didn’t appreciate. Effortlessly able to captivate a room. He was shining. Golden. Apollo, Grantaire had called him. So many times before. He could go out in public like a normal person. Eat. Hang out with friends. Follow dreams and career ambitions of being someone and something.

It was so far away now. So beyond him. Now, he was nothing.

Ugly.

Horrible.

Less than a ghost.

But here was Grantaire.

Whole and perfect and tangible. Stronger than a memory. And so very alive.

He wanted to be alive again.

He was leverage now, Enjolras tried to tell himself.

But even he didn’t believe that.

He stared at the messenger bag, working his jaw and trying so very hard to retain some shred of moral decency still buried with in him.

His morals, he found, went before his mind did.

He held out his hand, stroked the black material of the bag, then withdrew it. Ground his teeth.

On the couch, Grantaire groaned. Enjolras’s head whipped around, fast as a flash of lightning. Every nerve, every fiber of his being seized. Tightened. He held his breath. Rather, he couldn’t even breathe.

He felt fear for the first time in a long time, the only emotion that he could pick out of the swirling haze other than sudden blinding relief that he hadn’t taken off the mask yet.

He watched and listened with every part of him hyper-aware and waiting as Grantaire snuffled and turned, but did not wake.

Slowly and quietly, he breathed out.

Before he was entirely consciously aware of what he was doing, his hands had returned to the messenger bag and was quickly undoing the clasp, slinging open the lap and pulling out its contents onto the bed. He sorted through them with deft hands, brushing aside stray pieces of trash that Grantaire must have stuffed in there when he had nowhere else to put it. Mostly courtroom sketches. Enjolras held each one, admiring them before casting each aside. Then his hands found the sketchbook.

He held his breath as he pulled it close and flipped it open to a random page.

His hands trembled and he snapped the book shut just as quickly as he had opened it, tossing it angrily back onto the bed and stumbling backward.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

It had been him. Or at least, what he used to be. How Grantaire had remembered him. He had drawn the Enjolras he had been in love with. Beautiful and golden and shining. The prefect face. The full lips and clear eyes. Unblemished and shining.

He left everything spread out on the bed. Left Grantaire sleeping on the couch. Disappeared back through the trap door.

Hot tears pricking.

The courthouse was closed and empty. Enjolras was allowed to roam.

He went to Courtroom C.

He stumbled blindly to the back row, collapsed in a bench, and began to sob.

His breath came out ragged. His vision blurred with the tears. He was suffocating. Hyperventilating. He cried and cried and cried.

He hadn’t cried in so long.

In almost five years.

And now it was all spilling out. Choking and gasping, he wept so that the tears were trapped in the mask and he felt as if he were drowning. He ripped it off and held it in his hands, tracing its features as the tears continued to fall.

And then he was standing and walking down the halls to the nearest bathroom, one with no hidden trap door or two-way mirrors. Just an ordinary bathroom. He found his way to the mirror, mask still desperately clutched in his hands, and he looked into it.

Forced himself to stare at the wreckage before him.

He was crazy.

Insane.

Absolutely out of his mind. His sanity had died with him. And he had died. In a ditch five years ago.

He raised a fist and struck out. His knuckles protested with the pain of it all, but he struck again, harder and surer. He felt the glass crunch, not quite shattering, but breaking still. He felt it bite back, slice the skin along his knuckles. Drops of his blood stain the mirror, stained the sink.

The mask felt from his hands and hit the ground soundlessly.

And then he collapsed, weeping loudly. But there was no one around to hear.

 

“Let me see your hand, Enj,” Combeferre said gently.

It was almost 6:00 in the morning, an hour before the courthouse would open. There was nothing to be done about the mirror. People would notice, of course. They might even look into it. Javert would grind his teeth over it, no doubt. But it would probably get blamed on some poor janitor. Or a nonexistent vandal. There were only two working security cameras on the premises. Budget cuts and all. Enjolras knew exactly where they were.

So did Combeferre.

There were enough people who believed in the existence of the ghost now, though, that he might actually get credit.

Combeferre had cleaned up the blood. Had come just as soon as he had gotten Enjolras’s call, almost an hour ago now. Had wordlessly cleaned up Enjolras’s mess, just as he always did.

Enjolras glanced down at his bloodied knuckles, where the sticky red had already dried. Enjolras had been balled up on the floor in the corner of the bathroom for hours now, and Combeferre approached him with a wet cloth in one hand and his medical kit in the other like he was a wounded animal.

“Enjolras,” he coaxed. And with a sniffle he held out his hand for Combeferre to inspect.

Combeferre got down on his knees before him and began to clean the wound.

Grantaire was probably awake by now. Awake and confused, wondering what fresh hell he had stumbled into. And here Enjolras had been hiding.

The cut stung, but Enjolras felt numb to it all. He could feel the pain, searing and cold all at once, but it was as if from a great distance. He didn’t react. He just sat there, crouched and dumb, watching Combeferre’s careful motions with cheeks stinging from the dried tears.

He barely felt anything. Didn’t feel the strong shame he should at being treated like some pathetic creature. He didn’t even think. He kept his mind blank, as mercifully empty as possible.

“Oh, Enjolras,” Combeferre murmured sadly, and Enjolras felt bile rise up in his throat.

Tears threatened him once more, and he blinked them back as he tried to squelch the shame. That horrible, relentless shame. He found himself reaching with his free hand for the mask, which lay discarded on the floor. Combeferre stopped him.

“No,” he commanded, shaking his head sadly. “No.”

He pursed his lips.

“Enj, you have blisters on your face from the chafing. You can’t keep that thing on all the time, especially when you don’t need to. Enjolras, I’m your best friend. Don’t hide from me.”

He set the cloth down on the floor and began to measure out a length of gauze while Enjolras watched.

“I wouldn’t…” Enjolras rasped, licking his lips and looking down and trying desperately to steel himself to say something, anything substantial. “I know. You don’t have to treat me like some breakable, fragile thing. You don’t have to lie and pretend. I already know. I see the way you look at me. The way Courfeyrac looks at me. I know what I am, what I’ve become. Horrible. Unbearable.”

“Enjolras-”

“I’m not blind,” he croaked. “I know what I am.”

“You’re my best friend,” Combeferre insisted.

Sweet, loyal Combeferre.

“I’m a monster,” Enjolras said simply.

Combeferre looked at him so sadly that Enjolras wished he were dead more furiously than ever before. He wanted to crawl into one of the empty stalls and die there. Be found in the morning. The mystery of the ghost solved just like that.

 It was a while before Combeferre spoke again. After he had finished with his hand and was starting to gather up everything he had brought in with him. Enjolras still hadn’t moved, hadn’t even bothered to stand up.

“Courfeyrac mentioned that he couldn’t get in touch with Grantaire last night,” he said slowly, avoiding looking directly at Enjolras. “He said he wasn’t feeling well. Now he’s worried something might have happened to him.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Enjolras said dully. “Tell him Grantaire is safe.”

Combeferre’s eyes widened, as if he was really shocked. He frowned at him.

“Enjolras-”

“Ferre, please,” Enjolras whispered, shutting his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at him. Wouldn’t have to face him. “Please don’t ask me. Don’t ask questions that you wouldn’t want the answer to.”

“Enjolras, what have you done?”

The words shattered him.

“I’m not crazy,” he insisted, though Combeferre didn’t ask. “And I would never hurt him.”

He opened his eyes again to see Combeferre frowning down at him.

Finally, he struggled to stand.

“I just need him. Just for a little bit. It’s the greater good, Ferre. And I promise you, I’d never, ever hurt him. Never. He’s safe.”

“Enjolras-”

“No. I know you. You’re going to try to reason with me. I won’t hear it. Better to not even waste your breath. Here.”

He hastily withdrew the letter he had written up earlier from his jacket pocket. That cursed red jacket. Another shred of the life he used to have.

“I need you to leave this on Tholomyes’s desk before you go. Promise me you will. Please, Ferre. Promise me you’ll do this for me.”

Combeferre opened his mouth to protest.

“Promise me,” Enjolras begged.

Combeferre swallowed. “I promise.”

He took the letter from Enjolras’s hands with a frown.

Enjolras nodded. “Good.”

Combeferre looked as though he were about to say something else.

“It’s only a few days,” Enjolras tried.

Combeferre’s jaw clenched and something like anger sparked in his eye, stark against the pity there.

“It’s abduction and blackmail.”

“It’s speaking Tholomyes’s language,” Enjolras said, but his voice was still unsteady and shook with barely-concealed tears.

Combeferre shook his head.

“I should leave.”

He turned his back on Enjolras and began to walk away.

Enjolras felt the tears again. Pricking at his eyes. Blurring his vision.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Combeferre’s back. “I really am. I… I’m so sorry, Ferre. For what I’ve become.”

Combeferre stopped, but did not turn back around.

“I failed you,” he said.

Enjolras shuddered.

“I should have done so many things differently, but I could only do what I thought was best at the time. This isn’t your fault. It’s mine.”

Enjolras held his breath so that he wouldn’t cry. “Ferre-”

But Combeferre was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am,,,so sorry,,,for the last chapter and this one. But hey!! The next chapter will be better, i promise! And it can’t be phantom of the opera if it’s happy, right?
> 
> Thanks again so much for your comments! Reading them is the highlight of my day, so keep talking to me! Even if its only a few words. They mean to world to me!
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter won’t take me long. I hate to leave you guys hanging lol, but life is life. Until next time!


	8. Stranger Than You Dreamt It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A P O L O G I E S

When Grantaire woke up, there was nothing. Nothing and no one. He had a killer headache, and his arms were sore, he realized, from the awkward position they had been positioned in as he slept. They were tied, he realized, to the ratty old couch he had somehow ended up on. He gave an experimental tug then, sighing, tried his best to lurch up into a sitting position, spilling pillows and blankets someone had arranged off of him and onto the floor.

It was a dark room. Not so dark that it felt empty and ominous, but the kind of dark that comes from no windows and no sunlight, only a couple mismatched lamps with flickering bulbs. It was a small room, but not too small. Large enough to accommodate the couch he was on, as well as a small table with a TV on it, a mini fridge and a microwave, a bookshelf, a desk, and a bed. On the bed, Grantaire’s bag and all his sketches were strewn about, and despite his situation Grantaire felt himself huff in irritation.

On the wall, so out of place in what felt like a survivalist’s bare bomb shelter, was a bright pink and red clock shaped like a heart. The arrow-shaped hands pointed to the time.

It was 7:23.

There were no doors.

Grantaire frowned and began to sweep his eyes across the room again. It was then that he saw it. Staring at him from the unlit corner of the room closest to him. A ghostly white opera mask.

He nearly leapt out of his skin, jolting so bad that he actually felt the couch scrape backwards.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he swore.

The empty face blinked at him without moving, eyes visible through the mask. They seemed even more hollow and sunken than before, outlined in greenish gray dark circles. Grantaire notice a red puffiness to them, as well, and the bloodshot eyes seemed glassy.

“I’m sorry,” E said, in a hoarse voice.

Grantaire could only stare at him, chest clenched in disbelief.

“What. The. Fuck.”

It was then that E took a couple tentative steps forward, more so into the light so that Grantaire could really seem him, his skeletal frame bundled in sweats. His right hand was bandaged, and Grantaire could see little dots of red seeping through the gauze.

“Do not. Come near me.” Grantaire bit out. “Until you tell me what the fuck is going on.”

E stilled and cleared his throat, looking down at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

And all the pieces slid into place.

“What the fuck?”

“I-”

“Why?”

“I-”

“Did you…” Grantaire frowned in disgust. “Did you fucking drug me?”

E squeezed his eyes shut and took a step back. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shook his head.

“Why?”

E took a breath.

“Your… Your father. Tholomyes. I needed… I… You’re…”

He shook his head in shame.

“Leverage. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Grantaire stared at him.

“You’re not.”

“I am,” E insisted, but Grantaire scowled.

“No. If you were, you’d let me go.”

E looked pained. “I… I can’t.”

Of course. Grantaire shifted, trying his best to make himself more comfortable. His skin felt hot. Prickly. His shirt was wet in the area that touched the small of his back, probably from sweat.

He looked around again, taking in the shabby little room, E’s hunched form.

He sighed angrily.

“You know what? Fuck you.”

E watched him sadly as he kicked a pillow on the floor by his right foot.

“Fuck you, you fucking bastard. And to think. I felt sorry for you.”

E was squeezing his eyes shut again, and Grantaire could have sworn he saw tears pooling in their rime. He swallowed thickly. Angry. So angry. So angry at the overwhelming guilt and pity that stirred in him at the sight. Despite everything.

He shut his eyes, too. Seemed like the smartest decision. To block E out, so he couldn’t feel sorry for him.

He could hate him as long as he didn’t see him.

“How long?” he heard himself saying.

“Just a few days. I’ll… You’ll be comfortable. I swear.”

Grantaire sneered, eyes still shut. “Yeah. Comfortable. Like I am now.”

He shook his head.

“You’re not gonna like… cut my ear off, are you?”

He opened one eye to see E vehemently shaking his head.

Grantaire sighed again.

“Fine. Whatever. I don’t want to fucking look at you right now.”

And he shut both eyes again.

Tight.

He felt sick to his stomach, utterly and completely torn apart. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He didn’t. His mind roamed, returned to the graveyard, where Enjolras called out to him. A hallucination. A drugged hallucination.

Probably.

Maybe?

He didn’t have a face.

Grantaire heard a flurry of movement, heard the creaking of hinges somewhere behind him, the clicking that marked the shutting of a door.

His eyes snapped open and he turned around as quickly as he could.

E was gone. Nowhere in sight. And there wasn’t any door to be seen. Just the same, empty room. Doorless and windowless.

E…

Grantaire thought about the red jacket.

And the blank face.

Grantaire thought about ghosts.

He wasn’t sure when he drifted asleep, but knew he probably had dozed off out of sheer boredom. All he knew was that when he woke up, he was untied. And E was sitting at the desk near the bed, back facing him. Sorting through papers.

He looked down to see his messenger bag placed carefully at his feet.

“You’re awake,” E said simply, not even turning.

His voice sounded clearer than before. More sure. Less pained.

Grantaire groaned as he sat up again and he reflexively rubbed at his wrists. Not necessarily because they hurt, though. More so because he felt that was a thing people did after being unbound.

“There’s food in the microwave,” E continued. “Lasagna. You should probably heat it back up. And there are waters in the fridge.”

Blinking, Grantaire stood up and took a couple of tentative steps on sore legs. He made his way to the microwave slowly, never taking his eyes off of E.

He was still wearing the mask. Grantaire could tell, even though he never turned in his seat to look at him.

He punched a couple of buttons on the microwave and waited for the food to heat.

A thousand theories about this phantom flitted through his mind as he tried to rationalize his predicament. Each one was insane. Absolutely crazy. But then, any possible theory he had or could have about E at this point was crazy. It was crazy to think that E was the ghost of a drug lord and cannibal with a rotting face as punishment for his crime.

He tried to keep his mind clear. Tried to keep it mercifully blank. It would have been so much easier if he could just have a drink. Easier to stay numb. To chase the confusion away.

Because he was so confused.

The microwave beeped. Enjolras opened it and pulled out the lasagna, reaching for a fork that rested on a nearby table and turning to lean against the mini fridge while he ate, watching E all the while.

There was only one way to further develop a theory. Or rather, to help him distinguish which of his theories were valid and which weren’t. And that was to gather evidence.

He knew only what he had so far perceived. Knew E’s voice, his mannerisms, all the thoughts and passions that drove him.

But he had yet to see his face.

Maybe it was rotted away and corpse-like. Maybe it wasn’t. And that in itself would tell him something. But there was only one way to find out what lay beneath the mask.

And that was to take it off.

“Aren’t you going to eat something?” he ventured cautiously.

E went temporarily still.

“I don’t really eat a lot,” he said, then resumed whatever he was doing.

Grantaire worked his jaw.

Interesting.

Over the course of the next few days, E disappeared and reappeared from his living space at will. Often when Grantaire wasn’t looking. Often accompanied by the telltale signs of using a door. Grantaire was determined to figure out the way out of this place. He would hunker down in a corner and watch. And watch. And keep watching. But eventually, he always either got tired or bored. And he would always lose focus and look away. And it was always then that E would slip between the room and the outside world.

“Is anyone looking for me?” he asked tiredly once, without even looking up from his sketchbook, when he heard that familiar creak-and-snap behind him.

He felt E’s searching eyes on him all at once.

“Tholomyes has told everyone you’re very sick and very contagious and are staying with your mother for a few days.”

Grantaire breathed out.

“Whatever saves face.”

E stared at him, long and hard, expressionless behind the blank white mask.

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.”

E cleared his throat and turned around. He began to walk over to the mini-fridge. He bent down and rummaged in it.

“Hungry?” he asked Grantaire, and Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him.

“What are you? My grandma?”

He watched as E shrugged his slim shoulders.

“I just… I want you to be comfortable. As comfortable as you can be.”

“Sure.”

He heard E sniff.

“I have more frozen lasagnas, if you’re interested. Some French fries. Enchiladas.”

“Diverse.”

E snorted, then the snort transitioned into a laugh. It was hoarse and almost strangled, like E was experimenting with the sound. Like he had never laughed before.

Since it had been an eternity since he last laughed.

Grantaire felt himself staring again. Staring at the matted yellow curls that trailed down his back.

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll take the enchiladas. Why the fuck not?”

E gave a curt nod and grabbed them from the fridge. He cut into the plastic and then roughly slid the pack into the microwave and thumped in the numbers. Grantaire heard the low hum as the food began to cook. The high-pitched shrill beeping when it was finished. E seemed nonplussed. He scooped the food out and delivered it to E dutifully, hand extended and offering a fork.

Grantaire blinked at him and accepted it.

“I’m going out,” E said curtly. “Need anything?”

“You’re not going to eat something?”

E stared at him blankly, like he could not comprehend the words falling from his lips.

“Uh.”

Grantaire sniffed at him and pointed to the seat next to him on the couch.

“Listen, man. You kidnapped me. Now, are you going to really leave me in total fucking isolation? You said you wanted me to be comfortable. Don’t make me eat alone.”

E trembled slightly, then seemed to shake himself, shudder, and suck in a deep breath.

“I… I guess.”

He turned and slowly made his way back to the fridge.

Grantaire began to lose track of time. There was no sunlight in that room. No way of telling when the days began and ended other than watching the hand move around that stupid clock. Grantaire would stare at the stupid clock until his eyes burned red and raw. Until tears watered in his eyelids and he was forced to close them. Forced to float by, utterly timeless.

Timeless.

He thought about ghosts a lot.

He thought about Enjolras.

E came and went. They ate together, most of the time. E was silent. Most of the time. He never took off the mask. Grantaire would fill the silences. Grantaire was good at running his mouth to no end. So Grantaire would talk and, occasionally, he heard little breaths of laughter, echoing within the confines of E’s mask.

Grantaire hated that mask.

Maybe it was because he was so isolated. Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen another human face in so long. But that blank, white mask made it worse. It was worse than a mockery. It was a cruel imitation that only added to his endless torment.

Fuck. He really was going batshit insane.

“Not too much longer,” E whispered one day, guilt betraying itself in his sunken eyes. “I promise. Tholomyes is going to break. And then you can leave. You can leave and never come back. Never think about me again. I’ll be out of your life. I promise.”

Grantaire had only stared at him, not quite knowing what to think.

Insane.

E had nightmares.

Grantaire hadn’t realized E even slept until one night Grantaire was awaken by a low agonized moan coming from the bed. He stumbled off the couch and blindly toward the light switch. He turned it on and saw E, eyes scrunched shut, twisted and writhing in his sheets.

He must have been waiting until Grantaire was asleep every night before he allowed himself the luxury. Must have been waking up every morning before him. He still had the mask on. Even as he slept, but it was knocked a little asunder, so that a crescent of E’s face was visible. Grantaire could not see much, but he did see the red, raw skin. The blisters from where that mask had been rubbing.

And Grantaire hated the mask a little bit more.

He reluctantly figured anything he did with the intent to comfort might only hurt E, instead. And even though Grantaire insisted he hated him, he couldn’t fool himself.

He felt sorry for him, most of all. And so he swallowed and turned the light back off. He went back to sleep.

When he woke up again, E was gone.

Grantaire was going crazy. Grantaire kept thinking about Enjolras. Grantaire kept thinking about E’s matted golden ringlets, bouncing against his back.

Grantaire hated that mask. More than he hated anything else.

Maybe even more than he hated himself.

But he wasn’t getting that crazy just yet.

One day, Enjolras came back and dropped a sketchbook in his lap. Grantaire stared at it blankly for several moments before Enjolras cleared his throat to explain.

“An apology,” he supplied hoarsely.

Grantaire touched the black leather binding. It was a nice sketchbook. An expensive sketchbook.

“Thank you.”

Days drifted by. Grantaire watched the clock. Grantaire felt his sanity slipping through his fingers.

He thought, maybe this was how E felt. Only E had it worse. Because when Grantaire was gone, he would be alone again. Out of his life.

He promised.

Grantaire had thoughts that swirled in his head, mixed and muddled and muddied. Impossible thoughts. Impossible to sort, to comprehend. He could only hold onto vague notions. Disjointed ideas. Names. Phrases. And he couldn’t hope to connect them.

E.

Enjolras.

Red. Red. Red.

Jacket.

Mask.

“When’s the last time you cut your hair?” Grantaire asked him, sitting on the couch while E hunched over his desk, scribbling pages and pages of something.

E had stiffened, then shrugged.

“Well, when’s the last time you brushed it?”

Grantaire heard E release a hissing breath.

“Because it looks pretty fucked,” Grantaire continued.

“Gee. Thanks.”

Grantaire shrugged.

“I could cut it for you. If you wanted me to.”

Silence. Grantaire waited for a response that never came. Without saying a word, E finished up whatever he was doing, snatched up all of his papers, and disappeared in the time it took Grantaire to blink. He didn’t return that night, and Grantaire fell asleep to the muted sounds of _Titanic_ as it played on the TV for the hundredth time since he first woke up there, watching the ticking of the clock on the wall.

But the next morning, Grantaire saw E again. And his hair was clean. Freshly trimmed. The gold ringlets were gleaming and the tangles were all gone, smoothed out with a deft hand.

Still, E said nothing about it.

 

In the end, Grantaire couldn’t help himself.

In the end, Grantaire lost the war against his own curiosity. Like he always would. Because Grantaire was always shit at self-control.

Because Grantaire was shit. Just in general. Because Grantaire couldn’t control himself, could control his own thoughts. And those thoughts were so overwhelming. His brain churned. His mind hurt. And the same disjointed ideas hiccupped in his brain on repeat. Again and again.

E.

Enjolras.

Red. Red. Red.

Jacket.

Mask.

He just couldn’t help himself. It had been too long. And E had been too busy. He had been gone for so long. They weren’t eating together anymore. E kept currying papers into and out of the room. His form became even slighter, of that were at all possible. Hollower. He barely said anything.

Grantaire stared at the ticking of the clock on the wall and felt himself go crazier and crazier.

So he couldn’t help himself.

In the end, E had been sitting hunched at his desk for over five hours. Grantaire knew. He had watched the ticking of the clock and counted the time. Grantaire became restless. He paced the room. Still E’s attention was focused absolutely on his current task. He was absorbed in it. Completely. He didn’t look up. He didn’t even seem to blink.

So Grantaire swallowed. Grantaire began to inch forward. Without even being fully cognizant of what he was doing, Grantaire felt his heartbeat heavy in his throat.

Grantaire hated that mask.

Grantaire inched forward. E didn’t even notice.

Grantaire touched his fingers to the edges of the mask.

E didn’t even notice.

Grantaire began to peel it off. Slowly. Deliberately.

E didn’t notice.

In the end, Grantaire ripped off the mask. In the end, Grantaire did not scream, but he sucked in a sharp gust of breath and in the silence of the room it seemed just as loud.

E noticed.

Grantaire was unceremoniously pushed back as E shoved backward in his chair and staggered across the room, as far from Grantaire as was possible with his hands covering his face.

“Shit!” he cried. “Shit!”

He had his back to Grantaire. His hands trembled as his fingers spread futilely over his warped features. But it was much too late.

Grantaire stared at his shuddering back in horror.

Much too late.

“Fuck! Why did you- Fuck! How could you-”

E rounded on him them, still shaking, peeking out from the gaps between his fingers.

“What the hell, R? What the actual fuck?” he roared.

Grantaire was frozen in place. He couldn’t bring himself to move.

He could only stare.

His disjointed thoughts had led him astray. He could only stare in horror as he was faced with the consequences of his actions.

_He has a death’s head. Grotesque, mottled flesh melting off his face. Great black hole where his nose is missing. Big, sunken, ghostly eyes that glow in the dark. A lipless, dead mouth. You can see his gnarled, bare teeth. Built of death from head to foot. He has to wander the courthouse for eternity, deformed and disgusting, to atone for his sins._

Not Enjolras. Definitely not Enjolras.

E.

E was angry.

E dropped his hands to his sides.

Grantaire stared.

“Is this what you wanted to see?” E hissed, stalking toward him.

Grantaire didn’t move.

“Is it? Ae you happy now? Are you satisfied. No! Don’t look away! Look at me! Right at me! Just like you wanted! Horrible, isn’t it? Are you disgusted? Tell me, am I as ugly as you might have hoped?”

E bared his teeth, curled his horrible deformed lips. His whole body trembled, but he lifted his chin even as his shoulders turned inward like his body was trying desperately to make itself small as possible.

“I’m horrible, aren’t I? Horrible. Now you see! Now you see why I’m damned to stay here! Alone! In the dark! These past few days… They’ve been hard, haven’t they? Imagine! Imagine a lifetime.”

He jabbed a finger at his own slim chest.

“I have been drowning in the dark! Suffocating! And now you know why! Now you can see! Feast your eyes! Glut your soul! Look at the freak!”

Slowly, numbly, Grantaire became horrifyingly aware that E was crying. Grantaire tried to say something, but his mouth wouldn’t move.

“Fuck!”

E turned again, covered his face again. He crouched in the corner, fingers curled across his features, and sobbed.

Grantaire suddenly realized that that he was holding the mask in his hands.

He hated that mask.

More than he hated himself.

More than he hated anything.

But the way E cowered… the way his shoulders shivered and thick sobs escaped unbidden from his lips… Grantaire swallowed. Grantaire took a breath. And, without really thinking too hard about it, he extended his arm toward E and offered the mask.

“I’m sorry,” he said thickly, an echo.

E didn’t even look at him. He reached out blindly, intuitively, and snatched back the mask. Grantaire watched wretchedly as E, facing the wall with his back to Grantaire, adjusted the mask over his features and took in a breath.

Grantaire began to say something else, but E cut him off.

“No. I am. I’m sorry, R. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire heard him draw in yet another breath. He could hear the way it shook.

“I know what I am. And I thought that maybe… I don’ t know. Well. Now you do. You know. You’ve seen. And now you have to leave.”

Grantaire blinked, watching as E turned to stare at him. Just like that, he regained his pristine posture, his distance. Grantaire was left staring at the blank, empty mask with a pit opening up in his stomach.

“I-”

“Tholomyes caved. Looks like your dad loves you, after all. You or his image.”

“Image,” Grantaire found herself supplying automatically.

He swallowed, then furrowed his brow.

“When-”

“He caved three days ago,” E told him, roughly, relentlessly, like the gap between them they had slowly been closing over the last few days was an insurmountable cavern, was just as wide as it had been.

Grantaire felt the pit inside him grow, but his anger was dulled. Numb and inconsequential.

Mostly, he felt pity.

Pity.

Just pity.

That was what he told himself.

“Now, you know everything,” E continued with a merciless coldness, like he hadn’t just been crying. “Now you know exactly what kind of monster I am. Exactly what kind. It’s for the best. Now you can leave.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

E turned and grabbed something. Tossed it to him.

A blindfold.

Grantaire felt a lot of things. The feelings were nameless, unidentifiable. Jumbled and churning. Guilt. He knew he felt guilt.

He was paralyzed by it. And any anger he retained froze under its icy influence. He knew what he had done. He knew.

He knew what he had caused.

What he had wrought.

Pity. That was there, too. But there was something under the surface. A pain that was deep and throbbing, vivid. It was E’s pain. But it was sharper than simple empathy. Grantaire was a fundamentally selfish person. At least, that’s what he thought of himself. Still, he knew and recognized empathy. That feeling of piercing his heart and letting it bleed for another soul.

This wasn’t that.

This wasn’t a simple heart-bleed. This was an ache. A raw, ripped carving-out. This was E’s heart, in his chest. And his, in E’s.

This was deeper than empathy. It was connection.

And it burned.

Grantaire frowned at himself, frowned at what he was feeling. Frowned because he couldn’t believe it. Because he didn’t want to believe it.

So Grantaire did what he did best.

He denied. He deflected.

He committed to drinking it away as soon as he had the chance.

He resorted to humor and sarcasm and deception and lies and smoke and mirrors to provide enough cover for him to escape into oblivion where he belonged.

Weird situation. Same familiar mechanisms.

He felt his lips draw back to expose his teeth, words tumbling out without his consent.

“Kinky.”

E stared. Grantaire, all nervous humor and no good plan on how to proceed, said nothing else. He merely grabbed at the blindfold and hurriedly put it on.

When he felt E’s gloved hand in his, he tried to ignore the lurching of his stomach, the dismayed and dire tremors in his heart.

He allowed himself to be turned three times, like he was a child preparing to hit a piñata, and then allowed himself to be led.

Then, his lips were parting again and before he could stop himself he said, “I don’t think never thinking about you again is an option for me, E. Just so you know.”

Not even he knew what he meant by that. It was said with clear reluctance in his tone, clearly troubled. Almost a hint of irritation. Dismayed. Distraught.

Unwilling.

He just let it hang there, as it was.

They both did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, please show me some love :) I am EXTREMELY sorry this is so late!


	9. Why Have You Brought Me Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial of Jean Valjean comes to an end and Enjolras returns Grantaire to the outside world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this fast update an apology for the drought I left you guys in!

In the end, Tholomyes recused himself from the trial and allowed Blachevelle to step in. He told Enjolras with curled lips that his pride would not allow him to assume any role other than puppet master. He would only allow someone else to pull his strings so long as he was pulling someone else’s.

At least, that’s what he told Enjolras.

In the end, the jury reached a guilty verdict.

It was inevitable. The woman who rose up to read it frowned as she did. All seemed deeply perturbed by their own collective conclusion. But the facts were there. There was no denying this man was a criminal who had violated his parole and committed several crimes since. No matter how good he was or how saintly he was, Valjean was in fact guilty of the stated crimes. To deliver a not-guilty verdict would have been a lie. So the juror simply stated, frowning and sad, “Guilty.”

In the end, Valjean received eight hundred hours of community service, to be completed over the course of the next three years. Enjolras, watching the scene unfold through one of his many peepholes, closed his eyes as he listened to the verdict, squeezed them tighter while releasing a breath when he listened to the punishment.

It seemed as though the entire courtroom breathed a sigh of relief. Valjean’s lawyer clapped him on his back and grinned. Cosette leaned over the barricade and squeezed her father’s shoulder.

Valjean, for his part, looked mostly shell-shocked. Then, his eyes began to water and a smile spread across his features. Community service.

Enjolras had never seen someone so thrilled by the prospect of hundreds of hours of community service.

There was a man standing in the back, though, who seemed deeply perturbed by the proceedings. Who grinned at the ‘guilt’ then proceeded to receive the sentence with a sneer. Enjolras watched as the man, greasy beneath his tacky suede suit, locked eyes with Blachevelle. He watched as he curled his lips, exposing yellowed teeth. He watched as Blachevelle paled.

Then he watched Jondrette slip through the back door of the courtroom and disappear from Enjolras’s sight.

He swallowed.

It had been four days since Tholomyes had ground his teeth and signed the letter to Blachevelle, then the order to promote Javert to a higher position in a different district. Less than twenty-four hours since Enjolras had returned Grantaire to the outside world. He had delivered him to that bench under that streetlight where he had slipped him his flip phone forever ago. There he had removed the blindfold and turned without a parting word to remove himself finally from Grantaire’s life.

Grantaire had stopped him with only a word.

“Wait.”

Enjolras had waited without turning back around, so it made his blood freeze in his veins when he felt Grantaire’s hand grasp his.

Just like that, he couldn’t breathe.

He was insane. He really was.

“E,” Grantaire had insisted, and Enjolras closed his eyes and felt his soul falling from his body.

He was staring at so many loving sketches of a blond statue. Unblemished marble. Dogmatism somehow captured in the pen strokes.

He was in the bathroom with bloody knuckles staring at his warped reflection in shattered glass.

He was dead in the woods in the middle of nowhere, half-buried with a fervor fueled by guild and drugs.

He was standing before Grantaire, unmasked and exposed, and the only thing that flashed through his muddled brain, clear as day, flashing with the burn of revelation, _Now he will never love me again._

“Jesus, E, I’ve been your unwilling roommate for the past I-don’t-know-how-long. I’m still pissed at you, sure, but we’re kind of friends now. I think. Look, what you did was fucked up but… Well, I guess there’s no ‘but’. I shouldn’t forgive you, should I? And here I am anyway. Come on. At least look at me.”

When Enjolras moved his mouth to speak, the words had cut coming up. Like he had swallowed razors and now his throat was ripped raw.

“You don’t forgive me. Not really. And you’re right. You shouldn’t. You just feel sorry for me. That’s it. And I don’t want your fucking pity. I don’t need it.”

He did.

Grantaire dropped his hand and cleared his throat. Enjolras was finally compelled to look at him.

His face had been red and frowning. He didn’t disagree with him. Enjolras say that as just as good as admitting it.

Pity.

That was all he was worth.

“I want to help you take down the Jondrettes.”

Enjolras had been roused from his wallowing. He blinked at Grantaire in surprise.

“How-”

“Yeah. I know about the Jondrettes. I know they’re the real reason you’ve been bugging me about Montparnasse. I’m not completely stupid.  I want to help you.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all.”

Grantaire stared at him. Enjolras stared back.

“You shouldn’t want to help me,” Enjolras continued roughly, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Grantaire nodded in agreement.

“But I do.”

“Why?”

Grantaire shrugged.

“Fuck if I know. I just do.”

Enjolras blinked.

“I don’t accept that.”

“Why not?”

“I think you need to think this through. I don’t accept your answer.”

Grantaire had scowled.

“The fuck?”

Enjolras had turned around again. He began to walk away.

“Because you’re not thinking it through. You don’t want to help me. Not really. You just feel sorry for me. Maybe you have Stockholm’s Syndrome. Jesus, you probably do. I don’t know. All I do know is that you’re going to regret this in the morning. So I don’t accept your answer.”

“You’re not my drunken one-night stand, E!” Grantaire called after him, and Enjolras’s cheeks burned. “This isn’t some stupid compulsive decision that I’m going to wake up and regret! This is important!”

“You’ll see,” Enjolras had hissed back under his breath.

The morning of the verdict, Enjolras received Grantaire’s text.

_Be on the lookout for Brujon. Montparnasse’s friend. I don’t trust him and he doesn’t trust me. He says he’s seen you. Or the ghost. Just fyi._

And that was that.

Enjolras had also gotten a series of texts from Courfeyrac.

_im mad at you btw_

_but like grateful bcuz my boy is back in town_

_r i mean_

_but like_

_still pissed_

_because that was crazy e!!!!!! like wtfffffffffff!!!!!!!_

_wrong on so many levels_

_cant fucking beleive_

_but also_

_fuck you know im not a mad person_

_like angry person_

_notan angry person_

_i miss you_

_ferre isstill  mad at you tho but mad like a dippointed dad way_

_because what you did was fucked up i mean_

_you might not hear from him for a few days_

_but im here if you need <3_

And a text from Joly.

_Hey! Combeferre told me that you have some chafing and blisters on your face from wearing some stupid mask all the time :( I can’t like stop you but if you insist on keeping on then I can bring you some ointment and antiseptic and bandaids so at least nothing will get infected or hurt too much. Let me know. I’m here if you need me._

And, as predicted, nothing from Combeferre.

As the trial concluded, Enjolras slipped away through the walls, away from the echoing excitement of the courtroom and into the dank nothingness of the innards of the courthouse. Once again, he felt Javert’s white-hot gaze fix on the exact place in the wall where Enjolras had just been. But Enjolras was unbothered.

Javert would be gone by the end of the week and another obstacle would be removed from his path.

Everything was going well. At least, on paper. Theoretically. Theoretically, Enjolras should be content. He was maximizing the good he was doing, just as he had always wanted. He was achieving his goals despite everything. Despite the accident. Despite his face.

He should be content.

He wasn’t.

He wasted a few hours in his room, writing letters and watching the hands of the clock move on the wall. He paced. He stalked. He ate. It was just a can of soup, but he ate it. He ate it all. He read the last book Combeferre had delivered to him to prevent his death by boredom.

_Hunchback of Notre Dame._

Funny.

It was about evening when Enjolras began to grow unusually fidgety. He paced. He paced. He paced some more. Until his eyes landed on his couch, which had remained untouched since Grantaire had left.

It still had a blanket draped over it. Pillows crushed by Grantaire’s head as it tossed in so many nights’ worth of sleep. Enjolras felt himself drifting closer to it, touching the plush blanket gingerly. He held his breath. He moved around the couch, silent, and sank into the sagging impression Grantaire had left behind.

He took his mask off.

He pulled the blanket over him.

He closed his eyes.

He slept.

He slept.

He slept.

He woke up. The sleep had been long and had felt good. Safe. Enjolras hadn’t had a decent sleep for longer than he had been dead. Maybe since before his parents left. Maybe since before middle school. Maybe since before puberty.

Maybe since he had been born.

He lay there, swaddled in Grantaire’s blankets and Grantaire’s pillows and Grantaire’s scent and suddenly felt so wretched that he wished, not for the first time, that he was really and truly dead in the ground. An unliving corpse. Buried and forgotten. At peace.

He briefly entertained the thought of telling Grantaire the truth. But what good would that do? Grantaire loved a memory of beauty. Not him. Never him.

Which was understandable.

It was.

Grantaire would not love him because, how could he? The truth would do no good. It would only hurt him. And Enjolras had already hurt him enough. It would wrench away that loving memory. Grind it into dust. Make it ugly.

Ugly.

No.

Grantaire couldn’t know. Not ever. It would kill them both.

Enjolras rose up from the couch and took his time gathering up the bedding, folding it with care. Then, he glanced at that stupid clock on the wall. Midnight.

Enjolras slipped through the trapdoor and into the walls. Slipped from the walls through to the open halls of the courthouse. Into the real living world.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

In the silence of the empty halls, Enjolras could hear a very faint gurgling sound. And, softer than that, a low wheeze. He furrowed his brow, turned on his heel, and began to follow it. He followed it through the halls. Up the stairs.

To the judges’ quarters.

He was just passing Fameuil’s old office when, at the end of the hall a door flew open. And out strode someone he recognized, hands in his pocket. Eyes downcast.

It took a moment for Enjolras to recall the name. And in the time he took standing there, shell-shocked and thinking, the man looked up and noticed him. His face immediately paled in terror and in lips parted and began moving.

Enjolras remembered then.

Brujon.

“The ghost!” he was gasping as he backed up into the wall. “Jesus Christ! It’s the fucking ghost!”

Enjolras blinked as he clasped his hands together in a plea.

“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me, please! I’ll leave! I’ll leave and never come back! I didn’t mean to-”

His words dissolved into nonsense. He was shaking.

Enjolras looked past him at Blachevelle’s open door.

“Why are you here?”

Brujon only shook his head soundlessly, eyes wide, pupils blown.

“God protect me!”

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. In the hush of the courthouse, he heard another wheeze. Coming from Blachevelle’s office.

He didn’t bother anymore with Brujon. He shoved past him. Their shoulders connected as Enjolras pushed him aside, and immediately Brujon stopped muttering. The was a moment of utter silence in which the only sound percing the night was the creak of the office door as Enjolras opened it, then the sound of Brujon’s hurried footsteps as he sprinted away pounded in Enjolras’s ears as well. Heavy. Like the pounding of a drum.

Enjolras’s breath caught in his throat.

There, on the floor, was Blachevelle.

Bleeding out from a gash in his neck.

“Shit!”

Enjolras dropped to his knees immediately. He was no doctor. There was no time for Combeferre or Joly or their advice. He did what he thought was best. He pressed his hands into the wound in an attempt to stop the flow of blood. It did no good. Red rushed over his hands. Pooled around his knees. Blachevelle, despite his proximity to death, managed to swivel his head just enough to spot Enjolras in his rapidly dimming vision.

His eyes widened fractionally with terror. Then, he was dead. Dead with an expression on his face as if he had seen a ghost.

Dead, with his blood on Enjolras’s hands.

Enjolras scrambled to his feet.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Jondrette. It had to be Jondrette.

Enjolras had to get out of there.

He ran.

He ran out of the courthouse.

He kept running.

He didn’t know where he was running to until he got there.

It wasn’t too late, but the streets were mercifully empty. Enjolras knew he had blood on his hands. On his clothes. He knew he was a madman.

Crazy.

Insane.

He knew how risky this was.

How batshit crazy.

But his rational mind was gone. Completely gone. Terror flooded his veins. A horror deeper and darker than Brujon’s or Blachevelle’s. He was not afraid of a simple ghost. He was afraid of so much more. So much that he couldn’t list if he tried.

He ran. Down the streets. Through the alleyways. His feet carried him to a nondescript apartment complex in a dingy part of town. Not too far from the courthouse. By a bus stop.

He had found this place out weeks ago.

He thought it necessary.

He began to climb the fire escape on the back of the building. Up to the third floor. He crouched by the clear glass of the window, vision unobstructed by curtains or blinds.

From his perch, he was able to stare directly at the mattress on the floor in the opposite corner of the room. He could stare at the messy black curls wisping from the back of Grantaire’s head as he slept.

Enjolras hadn’t even really processed Blachevelle yet. The whole situation was just floating there, caught in his eyes like a speck of dust. Replaying. Replaying. But it made no sense. He couldn’t possibly understand what it meant. It gnawed at him. A pressure in his head for which he couldn’t deduce the cause. But the longer he stared through the window at Grantaire’s sleeping form, the more the pressure lessened. Lessened so that it was only a dull ache. And the image of Blachevelle bleeding on the courthouse floor became transparent. Barely there. And Grantaire became all he could see.

Creepy.

Distantly, he was aware of how creepy this was.

But mostly he just felt numb. Sensation was lost. He was floating in a haze. He became aware, from far away, of the fact that he was crying.

He had been crying so much over the past few days. Too much.

He couldn’t help himself.

He couldn’t help himself.

He stared at Grantaire and allowed himself this small peace simply because he couldn’t help himself.

Creepy.

Crazy.

Insane.

Grantaire was a connection to his past. That’s what he told himself. A comfort.

He knew better. In that moment, he knew nothing at all. But he knew better than that.

He knew he was spiraling. Dangerously. More and more, Grantaire was becoming the only thing that made sense. The only thing that took away the pain. Thinking of Grantaire was like thinking of a brighter future. So Enjolras thought about Grantaire as much as he possibly could.

He was falling into obsession. He knew that. Rationally, he knew.

He didn’t care. Not anymore. It was all he had now.

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

He stared at Grantaire until the head of the sun appeared in the horizon on the other side of the city. The world began to wake up. Enjolras didn’t have much time. Soon, people would flood the streets. The janitor was probably already at the courthouse.

Distantly, Enjolras heard sirens.

He didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, please leave me some comments :) Also!! I have a tumblr now! So if you want, send me a follow! My @ is the exact same as my ao3 username :))


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